


Cordium Street

by BarkingBard



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Australia, Australian Slang, Canberra - Freeform, Gonzo the dog - Freeform, M/M, Sharehouse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2020-12-22 14:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarkingBard/pseuds/BarkingBard
Summary: We were  struggling to find suitable people to occupy our spare rooms in our share house on Cordium Street. Most of the applicants were horrific, until a 6 foot 5 blonde American philosophy student charmed his way in. This left one room to fill and the shaggy auburn haired Italian Music student who walked into to my bookshop, could fit the bill.





	1. How it all started

**Cordium Street – Canberra, Australia - January 1993.**

My partner Oscar and I had moved to Canberra about a year before we had even heard of Cordium Street. He had won a scholarship to study languages at the Australian National University (ANU) and so I applied to transfer to their art school. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I was accepted. We packed up everything into my dodgy blue Holden Gemini station wagon, along with our 8-year-old Labrador Gonzo, and we set out on the 15-hour drive to Canberra from our hometown of Adelaide. We stopped every two hours to let the dog piss and to change over drivers. It was truly an awful experience. For anyone who hasn’t done a long drive halfway across a continent you will never understand the horror of this type of driving. It is hell!

We had to repeat the process in reverse for Christmas and then a third time on our return from family festivities. This was then followed by the nightmare of house hunting. Oscar saw the ‘to let’ advert first and had rung the landlord to arrange an inspection. He met me for lunch with a shit eating grin and the paper in his hands. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Important artistic endeavours! Why?” I asked.

“Taking photos of random naked people is not art but can you cancel your model? We have a house to look at.” He said and handed over the paper. “It’s going to be way too big for us but the rent is pretty low and if we get two housemates it will work.”

I stared at him in stunned awe. Firstly, his dig about my art practice. They are challenging to the casual observer but it was something I was very passionate about. Yes, it did consist of a lot of ‘knob shots’ from different angles but that did not negate the artistic rigour of the work. And secondly just as startling, he may have found us a house. I could only nod.

As we walked up to the dated yellow brick townhouse I knew it would be perfect for us. The area was a bit dodgy, full of public housing and international students, but we could deal with that.

The architecturally designed two story house was smaller than I expected but it had so much space through clever arrangement of the two stories. The master bedroom was on the ground floor with an ensuite bathroom and private courtyard; full of dying Chinese and Japanese exotic plants. Oscar would make short work of revitalizing his ‘Zen garden’. The two other bedrooms were upstairs and shared a small balcony and the main bathroom which lay between them. Our future housemates would have to share the bathroom but more importantly, we wouldn’t have to. It was very private yet perfectly social when we needed it to be.

As we entered, I turned on the landlord with a charm offensive that should have seen me win an Academy Award for best actor. I explained quite clearly how it would be in his best interest to rent the place to us. At the right moment, I sent Oscar upstairs to jump up and down in the room above ours so I could ensure that there was enough sound proofing. It appeared to be. The bouncy sex noises were barely audible and with that I took the landlords hand and shook on our tenancy agreement.

Another big selling point for this house was the ‘residents only’ swimming pool which would be brilliant in the heat of a Canberra summer. No dogs or glass is allowed but what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Gonzo is a resident too and who would know if we took some beers with us?!

We were both fulltime students, barely part-time employed and so our collective income was pretty bad. We needed to get the spare bedrooms filled. I spent the next evening plastering the University with hand screen-printed ‘Housemate Wanted’ posters with our new landline phone number and waited for the right people to gravitate to us.

_***_

We held four interviews and we welcomed each perspective housemate sequentially into our living room and sat them on the sofa. We sat opposite in matching armchairs. I had spent an enormous amount of time devising the questions we were to ask. My main aim was to lull them into false sense of security and then pounce to find out if they were homophobes.

** _What did you get for your sixth birthday_ ** _? – To find out if they have any long-term memories issues (excessive drug use) and or parental issues that might make living with them challenging._

** _What is your favourite food? _ ** _– Can they cook, and are they going to be messy in our kitchen?_

** _What are you studying? Do you like it_ ** _? – Is it boring? Are they going to quit Uni and leave us with extra rent?_

** _Are you single?_ ** _ – Will they move a boyfriend or girlfriend in and then have them eat all our food and then increase our electricity and water bills?_

** _How are you with dogs?_ ** _ – Are they going to harm Gonzo in any way? The dog comes with the house! If that is a problem then they are not right for us._

** _We are a couple. Do you have a problem with that?_ ** _ – And I pounce. Homophobes beware!_

The interviews didn’t go very well. The middle-aged hippy started crying at the birthday present question. He was raised a Jehovah’s Witness and they didn’t celebrate birthdays. Mind you he stunk of piss and dope. He was off the list.

The vegetarian informed us that Gonzo should become vegetarian. I kicked her out of the house so fast that her head spun.

The med-student was so off his head he couldn’t answer the questions. It would be a ‘hard no’ to Med-students from now on.

The six foot five American came in all charm and suntanned bravado. His blue billowy shirt was half undone. He was so tall and had blonde hair and had the most impossibly blue eyes.

  * He received a bike for his sixth birthday. ✅
  * He liked food that he can put on a barbeque. Yes, that is outside cooking. He told us he had worked in a restaurant in the States. ✅
  * He was working on a thesis on Pre-Socratic philosophy and had 18 months to finish it. ✅
  * He had only arrived the week before, his jetlag was killing him, but he felt he wouldn’t have time to date. ✅ and ✅

He began talking about some ‘off again, on again’ girl back home. While he talked Gonzo got up on the couch next to him and rested his head on his lap. This ‘Oliver guy’ absentmindedly scratched him behind his ear and continued without missing a beat. Gonzo had made a new best friend.

Oliver asked in a casual off hand manner, “You two make a cute couple! Have you been together long?”

Oscar turn to me and then back to Oliver. “Yeah, forever. Our room is down here on the ground floor. Would you like to choose which room will be yours upstairs?”

Oliver gave a big grin of victory but didn’t move too quickly so he didn’t disturb Gonzo. Damn that American smile and the way it melts even the coldest heart. We had our first housemate.

We organized to help Oliver find some furniture during the weekend and to use our station wagon to move it. He would have trouble getting a bed long enough for him. He was a giant after all, but we could sort out the rest relatively easily. He would start paying rent in four days’ time.

After he left, I had to rush to my part-time job in the local bookshop. It was a sweet little store. Full of high dusty shelves, packed to overflowing with books. I was supposed to clean in my spare moments but mostly I stalked our punters to ensure they didn’t steal anything. Worse than stealing was the ones who insisted on moving our books out of alphabetical order.

The collection in the store was eclectic and reflected the rabid purchasing choices of the owner and the buying habits of our regular clientele. It was warm and dark and had they sweet smell of books and I loved it there. Because of the interviews, I ended up arriving a little late for my shift. Mary my boss laughed hysterically as I regaled her with tales of ‘the horrors’ that came to inspect our home. She thought it was hilarious that three quarters of them didn’t ever get to see the rooms. I explained that we are very choosy about most things, why would we allow ‘riff raff’ full access to our house. She was intrigued by the pretty American and I described him as the usual bold and brassy preppy boy, except this one had a bit of a brain and a taste for philosophy. Most of all I explained the part about how much Gonzo had adored him, Oliver would fit in just fine.

It had begun to rain and so my shift was a little slow. I was so bored that I started to pull out whole shelves of books and wipe down the shelves and then refile the books as I returned them to the shelf. I heard the door open and close and without turning my head, I heard the scuff of a pair of shoes on the wooden floor. My guess was converse sneakers.

The shopper skulked along the fiction section and then down towards history before stopping in front of the music and biography sections. Ok, it was not the location for the usual book thief and so I went over to make my presence known, to dissuade him from stealing anything. With the full intention of returning to my shelf cleaning.

I passed behind the handsome figure. He was dressed in a long coat and his jeans were rolled at the cuff. He was reading a French language edition of the biography of Collette.

I leant against the shelf in a relaxed and easy-going manner. “If you like that, then I am sure you will love our French section,” I said in a slightly too theatrical way.

He raised his eyes from the page and I was struck by two shining peridot eyes gleaming between a mass of auburn locks that framed his face. “Do you also have an Italian section?” He asked expectantly.

“We stock a little Italian, some German and a lot of Spanish books. When you are ready, I can show you where they are,” I said in a way too flirty way.

Oscar has said on more occasions than I would like to admit to and to anyone who would listen, that I was a terrible salesperson. I had a surly disposition but if the shopper was ‘easy on the eye’, I would suddenly put on the worst display as I fell over myself to help them. He knew it was just flirting but he liked to remind me of my weakness for a pretty face and a knowing look. I was glad that Oscar wasn’t around at this moment, he would have given me an elbow in the ribs and told me to behave.

The polyglot and I fell into easy conversation as he looked through our range. I watch him run his fingers over the spines of the books. Mumbling mostly to himself, “Rubbish, Rubbish, bloody awful, crap. Who the hell is Bryce Courtney anyway?” He said.

He was annoyed about something and so I asked him. “What are you actually looking for?”

“I have been in this city for three weeks and I can’t find good Italian coffee, a good book and cool house to live in.” The words burst out of him in a sort of sullen whine.

“Ok, the coffee is easy, go around the corner to the little café, ask for Marco. The book you should be reading is Donna Tartt’s novel, ‘A Secret History’, which is all about a murder in a Greek class. And what did you get for the sixth birthday?” I asked in a matter of fact manner and waited for his reply.

“A miniature drum kit, which I later swapped with a friend for a guitar,” he replied easily.

“Oh, you are an only child,” I said.

“How did you know that? He asked.

“Only parents who had no other children would buy something that stupid for their own child. Do you know what ‘Cordium’ means?”

“Yes, its Latin for ‘the hearts’.”

“Can you mind the shop for a sec? Do you want an espresso?” I blurted out over my shoulder as I bolted out the door and down the street to get Marco to make us coffee.


	2. A puzzle only Rubik could solve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the housemates finally meet and go in search of some furniture and other things in Fyshwick.

I felt terrible for the big guy. He wasn’t wrong about his jetlag being hell. He would be up at 3am pacing the building like a caged animal. He would finally go out for a run at dawn and then pass out for a few more hours on the sofa. He wasn’t doing himself any favours. He needed to be getting into a regular sleeping pattern. Gonzo had never been keen on sharing ‘his sofa’ but it was sweet to find him curled up in Oliver’s arms as I walked into the living room. The dog eyes would open in an apologetic kind of way. He wasn’t going to be leaving his friend’s side anytime soon, even for a morning pat.

The large three seated sofa was almost long enough for Oliver to stretch out fully and I would daily be greeted by a ‘fine sight’ up the leg of his short jogging shorts. His wiry dark blonde hairs covered his sweaty balls which were unmissable in the morning light. Oscar would usually tell me off for being a perve but Oliver didn’t seem to care if people saw more than they were expecting of his body. It wasn’t like we were going to act on it.

Most mornings he would parade down the stairs from his room dressed only in boxer shorts, in a cacophony of clatter and bangs. He would grab a glass and then a drink and then chat to us absentmindedly about anything that crossed his mind, his hand sliding down his intimidating washboard stomach to scratch an itch at the top of his pubes. It was all very sexually charged but he was totally oblivious to it. For us it built an excitement to the morning that neither Oscar nor I had expected to have with our new housemate.

My time at art school entailed much nudity. Years of life drawing classes and modelling for other students. Not to mention my own work which included getting most of my friends and family naked and then in front of the camera. It was way too soon to ask him to pose, but I was quite determined to get Oliver’s kit off and photograph him. Let me make this clear: this was not for a sexual thing, it’s pure ‘ART’. I would go into extensive detail to explain to Oscar that I wouldn’t be creeping on our new housemate, asking to photograph him naked. He was in quite extraordinary shape, big and tanned and broad and so stereotypically American handsome that I could not help but want to capture him on film.

I’m not sure if it was because he saw me checking out Oliver’s shape or because they were getting on so well, that Oscar began to go running in the morning with Oliver. “Tell me you aren’t just going to watch all that…” gesturing at my groin and arse, “bounce around in those short shorts,” I enquired.

“Hey, you want to photograph it. I actually like to go running in the morning, and we have really interesting conversations. You could join us, could do you some good,” he replied to my jealousy, pointing at my belly.

He knew I would never get up early, let alone go running for no apparent reason. I could run, if I wanted to. Like if I was being chased by something scary, but I wouldn’t do it like for sport or anything silly like that. _Oh, well played Oscar, well played._

***

The lost Italian boy who's name turned out to be Elio, came to see the room on Saturday morning. I let him in and Gonzo gave him a serious sniffing over. He was a little intimidated but patted him nicely and then almost on call Oliver came gliding down the stairs and entered the kitchen dressed only in his boxer shorts. Elio’s eyes, as wide as dinner plates, followed him as he drifted across our field of view. I introduced him to Oscar who had entered the hall from the dining room. We walked towards the kitchen as Oliver stepped out with a piece of toast in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.

“Oliver, Elio… Elio, Oliver!”

Oliver stuck the corner of the toast into his mouth to free up a hand and reached forward. His whole body almost took up the complete door frame and they both just stared at each other.

“Elio is here to look at the room next to yours. Tell him how great it is to live here!” I said interrupting them.

“The boys are great, and the bus system is really convenient. Are you at ANU too? But I have lost my heart to Gonzo. He is my little buddy. We sleep together most nights, oh and most afternoons. I definitely won’t be sharing him,” he said with a chuckle and a cheeky grin.

Elio ran his hand through his hair and squeaked, “Yes, at the Music school, classical stream.”

“I will show him around, if you like. Follow me,” and proceeded upstairs without looking back.

I heard Oliver give an extraordinary fictionalised account of the architectural features of the house, but I could hear Elio was revelling in the very entertaining tour of our top story. He talked of the local parks and the lake which was a short distance from the house; the markets and the shopping centre.

On their return I ask, “So?”

“I don’t have any furniture and I need to find a piano, and can I move in today? I will sleep on the floor if I have to,” Elio blurted out without hesitation. I easily slid my arm around Oscars waist and gave him a knowing nod. He replied to Elio, “That would be great. Do you want to come furniture shopping with us as well? We are taking Oliver to Fyshwick to find things for his room.”

Elio looked almost ready to burst with excitement and then looked puzzled. His emotions played across his face like clouds across the clear sky. “What is Fyshwick?”

We made a day trip of it. Fyshwick is quite a different part of town. Consisting of only commercial premises and no houses. It was where you could buy everything, large and small from cars to furniture to paint and everything in between. You can get anything you want, and I mean anything, you just needed to know where to go to find it. Because Canberra was in a Territory rather than a State it had weird loopholes around certain laws, that allowed it to sell things like fireworks and pornography, that was banned elsewhere. We pointed out the Porn shops that we were too scared to go into but had shopping trolleys for the consumer convenience. And told of the parties where we bought fireworks and set them off at midnight. It was great fun showing our new friends the unexpected delights of their new city. It was also decided that we must have fireworks at our housewarming party. Oliver and Elio said they would pay for the random collection of missiles and crackers. _Who were we to look a gift horse in the mouth?_

We started our serious furniture shopping at the charity shops, then moved on to the second hand and antique stores and finally the bed shops.

Elio had lost his heart to a beat-up upright piano. After begging the store manager to unlock it and let him play it, he was surprised to find it to be in perfect working order, if not a little out of tune, which he could get fixed. We stood back as his ‘Milanese merchant genes’ kicked into overdrive and he talked the price down from $500 to $120 with delivery. We would rely on his use of the same haggling skills weekly at the local fresh food market to get us bargains. He ended up getting a part-time job at the continental delicatessen at the markets and then we discovered the wonders of ‘staff discounts’ as well.

***

I had railroaded the house into setting the theme for the housewarming as a ‘Rubik’s cube’ party. I had to explain it twice until they understood the concept. Each guest comes wearing at least one piece of clothing in the six colours of the Rubik’s cube:

  * Red
  * Blue
  * Yellow
  * Green
  * Orange
  * White

Whatever colour jocks you have on is the colour you will be aiming to collect.

“Jocks?” Elio asked.

“Yes, Jocks... Jockey shorts... underpants… underwear!” I said a little annoyed at being interrupted again.

“When you end up only wearing clothes of only one colour, you win!”

“But how do you get the other coloured clothes?” Oliver asked.

“You persuade other guests to swap with you,” I continued to explain hoping they would soon see the fun of it.

“But what if we don’t want to lose our favourite shirt?” Elio asked looking concerned.

“Don’t wear it to the party. We can all buy outfits from charity clothing stores.”

I enlisted them all into helping me decorate the house. Oliver’s height was of great assistance. I had cut up squares of coloured paper in different combinations and glued three squares up onto long stips of paper to make a frieze that would go around every room. We rolled up the rugs and pasted plastic sheeting over the floors. I bought cheap sets of the game ‘Twister’ and placed them strategically through the house. The party would be debauched. I was more excited than the boys.

Oscar and Oliver had written the invitations, which I colour photocopied at Uni. They clearly explained the rules. Apparently, I was terrible at explaining it. They made it clear what was expected of the guests and their clothing requirements and the likely loss of said clothing. I made them put, **_‘If you are not dressed for the party. Don’t bother coming!’_**_ I hate time wasters._

Elio and I made a ‘lethal punch’ which was mostly vodka and lemonade but included pineapple and peach juice.

Oscar’s 6 disc CD changer was put into random mode and we all added a ‘party type’ CD and I chose one that represented Gonzo’s tastes and Oscar chose one for the house. With the music sorted it was time for shots!

Before any guests arrived, we all had become slightly anxious. ‘WE’ needed a couple of shots to calm our nerves. I hate the last half hour before a party starts. You never know if anyone will come and I start to panic. Oliver apparently had taken ‘Mixology 101’ at his old college and so we got him to make us some B52 shots. That did the trick.

***

The second-hand clothing choices that Oliver had to choose from was very limited. He ended up in tiny red shorts that left nothing to the imagination, a billowy blue shirt and two different coloured socks, a white hat and an orange tie. It worked in an American college movie kind of way.

Elio pulled off the most amazing costume consisting of an orange frilled shirt with a lacey collar and cuffs, white slightly flared Navy seaman’s pants, a powder blue tailed coat. He wouldn’t have looked out of place if he stepped on the stage to play a concerto. His white pants gave away the colour of his red jocks underneath. I would make him work hard to get my red shirt. The point of the party and the game was to meet new people and change with them.

By 8:30 the crowd was pumping, and the living room had become a dance floor. And various games of ‘Twister’ were occurring around the house. Everyone was in various stages of undress. I pulled out my camera and took numerous shots of the crowd writhing over itself. Rome had nothing on Cordium Street tonight.

I overheard Oscar explain to his group of friends that the house was full of ‘P’s. He was the Polyglot, Oliver, the Philosopher and he gestured towards Elio, the Pianist; And I was the Pornographer. Which drew an eruption of laughter from his friends. Most had seen my end of year exhibition and I am sure all of them agreed with his assessment. _Everyone is a critic!_

Later, I was talking to Elio about how good the punch was when his face suddenly changed into what could only be described as resembling a ‘dropped pie’. I followed his gaze which landed on Oliver who was coming out of the kitchen wearing a very tiny frilly white bra which he had exchanged for his billowy blue shirt. His arm was around one of my art school friends, Chiara, who dressed in the blue shirt and who was wearing the same colour lipstick that was smeared over his face and neck. _Ok, this is what he means by not having time to date. Right!_

“You like Oliver, right?” I asked Elio.

He gestured towards him. “Everybody… ‘likes’ Oliver!” he grunted.

“But you two are managing living together, fine?”

“What about if… I grow to hate him?” he growled.

“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.” I said as I led him back towards the punch bowl. It will all work out in the morning, but now we needed more punch.

I glanced back at Oliver and Chiara on the dancefloor. It was not just the punch that was pumping through his bloodstream and he was rubbing against Chiara in a way that was on display to the whole crowd. _Wow, hello tiger!_

One of Oliver’s Psychedelic Furs’ tracks came on, he parted from Chiara and took to stomping his large feet and pumping his fist in the air in a delirious display. The room slowed around him making room for his gestures and gyrations. Soon all were following his lead. He was like a conductor directing the pace of the party from his high point in the centre of the floor. He was oblivious to his own power, so enthralled was he in the song.

Oscar slid in behind me and we both surged in to join him towards the middle of his ‘Love my way’ delirium. Almost hypnotised by the spectacle, Elio was on the edge of the dancefloor, rippling and bucking along. His mood had shifted as he danced with some of his music school friends. At the end of the song Oliver pulled Oscar and me into the backyard and drunkenly declared it was time for fireworks. He and Oscar prepared the fuses of our mildly-crap-but-totally-excessive-for-the-budget-of-our-party ‘fireworks display’. I grabbed Elio and together we coaxed the rest of the crowd to join us outside for the show. We cheered and made appreciative noises as each cracker exploded from our garden and briefly lit the sky ablaze. Our house on Cordium Street had been properly warmed.

***

The party was winding down by 2 am. I had beaten Oscar to being the first to finish the Rubik’s colour challenge and stood resplendent in a random collection of Yellow clothing. Oscar would end only a few minutes later in a full set of Green and Oliver had given up but still had the white bra on. Elio was left with his white trousers and everything else red. I went over to Oliver and said, “Oliver, give me your shorts!”

“Are you trying to get into my pants?” He said jokingly and winks as he put his hand on my arse.

“No… I need them for Elio!” removing his hand.

“So, YOU are trying to get Elio into my pants?” he asked in an overly dramatic way.

“Hand them over or you won’t be getting any Gonzo loving for a month!” I said in my most authoritative and threatening tone.

He raised his hands in surrender. “But you have to get them off me!”

He let me pull them down. He was right, this was a two man job. They were that tight. Oliver was left him standing in his ‘tighty whitie’ jocks. The crowd erupted into cheers and wolf whistles and he took a couple of bows to the appreciative drunken rabble left in our house. I flung the shorts at Elio. “Hand over you pants, piano man!” I demanded.

In an awkwardly sweet way, he turned away from all our gaze and switched pants. He threw his over to Oliver.

In a scene straight from the Incredible Hulk, the thin white pants exploded around Oliver’s powerful thighs and so he was left wearing a collection of torn rags which he had no hope of zipping closed. He laughed it off and took up a place on the sofa next to Gonzo and explained to the slumbering hound “All this was for you mutt. You better be grateful!”

Gonzo gave him a _‘I’m tired so shut up!’_ look and drifted back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a migraine yesterday and this chapter fell out of my head. I promise I wont be writing this thing this fast from now on in. Promise. Enjoy.


	3. Homo-Domesticus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The post party tidy up begins and in the debris is a garment that causes some concern for Oscar and I. The only way to get to the bottom of it is to serve our new housemates 'breakfast in bed'! 
> 
> Before you read this chapter, I would suggest you take a couple of moments to listen to the piece Elio plays in the story, Franz Liszt's 'La campanella in G-sharp minor'. Here it is played by Lang Lang.  
[Franz Liszt's-'La campanella in G-sharp Minor' (Spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Hnurh1BcigGbCGFOb4Uid?si=dub29DxETtm6ZHmCY04xWg)  
[Franz Liszt's-'La campanella in G-sharp Minor' (YouTube)](https://youtu.be/PLd1BGgFgzs)  


**The morning after the night before.**

I stepped out into the carnage of the night before, feeling a little worse for wear. Oscar’s decision to have the party on a Friday night was inspired but it didn’t change the fact we had a lot of work to do and I felt like crap. Fortunately, we still had two days of the weekend to recover and tidy up from the party.

I couldn’t stand the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke so I slipped out into the backyard to get some fresh air. It was a visual representation of how my mouth felt. There was the usual detritus and debris of a busy house party: Bottles, cans, glasses and cups strewn over the yard. The remnant of the fireworks was left where they fell and there was an unusual collection of random pieces of clothing that had been discarded by party guests. I felt sorry for the yard, almost as sorry as I felt for myself.

Oscar slid his arms around me and nuzzled into my neck. “Where did you go?” he enquired in too thoughtful a tone for my present state. Pointing out the pair of white knickers hanging in the tree, Oscar asked, “Are they similar or even the same as the bra Oliver wore most of last night?”

My frazzled mind replayed bad reruns of Chiara rubbing herself over Oliver and Oliver’s bodily response on full display to the entire party. I could barely remember the details of the tiny bra that Oliver had somehow managed to get around his chest. 

He burst out with a laugh… “No, surely it’s not hers! He was in clear sight all night.”

“Do you remember Chiara leaving?” I asked.

“Nope, do you think that she may have stayed over in someone’s bed??” he said in a gasp, his eyes wide with the revelation.

“There is only one way to find out…. ‘Breakfast in bed’!” I declared triumphantly.

“No, we can’t do that to him.” Oscar, ever the voice of reason declared.

“If not this, you could go and discuss your suspicions with him?” I said flatly.

After a second to think it over, we were both suddenly frantically busy in the kitchen. Oscar and I work like a well-oiled machine, producing enough breakfast for five in a matter of minutes. The small galley kitchen was surprisingly effective with two people working side by side. Before long we had two trays stacked high with bacon, eggs, baked beans, buttered toast and two cups of industrial strength coffee.

After taking the stairs two at a time, nervously we stood outside Oliver’s room. I leant against the closed door and listened. I couldn’t hear anything other than small grunted snores.

“This is all you, baby! Your idea.. you knock!’ Oscar said to me with a wry smile.

I knocked quickly and barged into Oliver’s room. The room was ripe! The heady scent of booze, of sweat and of hormones… and of that special ‘Oliver Musk’. Oliver lay diagonally across most of the bed one leg off the side with a sheet barely covering his arse. How is such a fine rump even possible?

I lay the tray down on the end of the bed and opened his curtains and then the window for good measure. Oscar prodded the barely conscious figure of Oliver. “Breakfast, sleeping beauty!”

“What the hell is ‘this’ guys.” He grumbled as he rolled over making sure to cover himself.

“Sit up Oliver, we want to ensure that you have a nutritious breakfast. Look, here’s yummy coffee, just how you like it!” I said.

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes he mumbled at us, “You really didn’t have to make me breakfast. Actually, you really shouldn’t have made me breakfast!” His tone shifted tune as his brain started to engage. He really wasn’t a morning person or rather a ‘this morning’ person.

Responding to his tone I said, “Don’t think you’re special. See, we have a tray for Elio too!... We are not playing favourites!”

Sweeping across the room in an overly theatrical way, I stormed out with the tray. I loudly knocked on Elio’s door and barged in on him too. He must have heard the commotion in Oliver’s room and was already sitting up. He looked adorable with his bed hair and pillow lines across his cheek. He took the tray and gulped at the coffee like a man dying of thirst. I sat on the side of his bed and asked him how he thought the party had gone. He declared it a success and that the highlight for him was beating Oliver in the Rubik’s puzzle game. I professed the fireworks as my favourite part of the whole evening.

From the other room I heard Oscar and Oliver discussing the breakfast and the circumstances that entailed them arriving at his door. “Is he always that demanding?” Oliver asked in a slightly worried tone.

“Oh, just you wait, mate. He hasn’t asked you to pose for him yet. But he will. Then he will become demanding. Like a dog with a bone, he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” Oscar chuckled, “You have every right to say ‘no’, but just say ‘yes’, straight off, it’s just easier for everyone involved! He will pester you until you do, trust me. It’s not in his nature to not stop until he gets what he wants. I said ‘no’ to him when we first met and look at me now, at his side. And I couldn’t be happier!” Oscar said with pride. They both laughed heartily.

Elio was saying something, and I was so distracted by trying to overhear the conversation from the other room that I had to ask him to repeat it. Just as he began to tell me about one of his friends hooking up with one of mine, the doorbell rang and Gonzo burst into loud defensive barks. We heard his progress as he barrelled across the living room through the hall and then collided with the front door. Oscar and I met at the top of the stairs and flew down to answer the door. I grabbed Gonzo by the collar. He was doing a grand job of acting like a guard dog. His hackles were up, which was pretty convincing, until you saw his tail wagging at a million beats per second. “Borf… borf… BORFF” he continued to inform us of how the bell had been sounded.

Oscar swung the door open to be greeted by Elio’s beat-up old piano blocking the doorway. The delivery guys had done a ‘ring and run’ to avoid carrying it into the house. We were soon joined by Elio and Oliver clad only in boxer shorts.

I didn’t understand why the delivery guys had left the piano without waiting for us to answer the door. That was until we tried to move it. It weighed a ton and was difficult to move in tight and confined spaces. Even with four of us tugging and shoving the blasted thing, we could barely lift it, let alone move it all the way upstairs.

It was particularly challenging to get it through the narrow space of our stairway. The ‘L-shaped’ stairs made manoeuvring almost impossible. That part of the move took over half an hour of carefully choreographed lifts and heaves at the right time, to make it move only a small distance. Oscar shined in his role of head foreman. Who knew he had such good moving skills? Apparently, he had ‘moved house’ a lot as a kid and I was well impressed.

We were all shattered by the time the piano was safely resting against the wall in the mezzanine space, just outside of the boys’ bedrooms. I made Elio promise to not move out anytime soon, and I made it quite clear we would not be helping him when he wanted to leave us.

As we recovered on the landing drawing breath, I noticed Elio’s eyes wandered over the various wet patches on Oliver’s boxer shorts. This was something I would have to ask him about at the next opportune moment when we were alone. Oliver was shaped like Apollo on a bad day, but Elio was all too interested for a straight man, as he examined every drop of sweat trickle down his body and disappears somewhere near his groin. The look in his eyes was thirsty, just as they had been this morning as I handed him the cup of coffee.

“Play something for us,” Oliver declared as their eyes met awkwardly.

Without protest or complaint, Elio turned the key in the lock on the front of the piano. I dashed downstairs to collect the piano stool. I was excited to hear him actually begin to play the thing as I tramped back up to the landing. Sitting down next to Oscar, Elio looked small against the tired old dragon of an instrument. He started pounding out a slow beat of notes which built into a flowing lyrical piece that had the room buzzing with its simplicity and counter balanced notes. As he played, his confidence grew and his speed increased, caressing the keys in a sequence that none of us know but it was obviously purposeful and very beautifully rendered. Each new phrase of the music built on the last and saw him lovingly explore the whole keyboard in quick staccato notes, rolling and cascading over each other as his hand worked in different directions drawing the music out of the stiff wooden body of the instrument. When he struck the last note it hung in the air and continued to reverberate in our chests and bounced around the room filling the space. As it faded, we felt the loss of the sound and wanted to cry for more.

Oscar’s mouth hung open in disbelief and Oliver had genuine tears in his eyes which he tried to brush away without anyone noticing. I stood and applauded and was followed by my housemates. Elio’s grin was infectious.

Listz’s ‘_La campanella in G-sharp minor_.’ It’s a revision of an earlier version from 1838_. _It’s considered one of the most difficult pieces ever written for piano. I mastered it at 14 and I usually use it to test new keyboards.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Oliver asked noticeably impressed and ‘shoulder bumped’ him affectionately.

“Oh Oliver, so many things!” Elio sighed wistfully.

***

The clean-up took a surprisingly short amount of time with the four of us on it. The floor was vacuumed and mopped and the mess cleared up in no time. The black garbage bag mountain was moved into the garage. We would have to discard them into all our neighbours’ rubbish bins for weeks to get rid of so much waste.

The last task was to clear the back garden. I flung the white panties at Oliver, “I think these are yours!” I said in a playful way. His reaction was naturally horrified.

Elio’s face changed as he turned toward Oscar and me. “So, you thought that Oliver had picked up that girl, and the breakfast trays were just a ruse to see if he was sleeping alone!” Elio said in a tone befitting ‘Hercule Poirot’.

Oliver erupted with explosive force. His colour changed, shifting through shades of red to an almost purple. “You sneaky bastards. If you want to know something, just fucking ask!”

He turned to Oscar, “I am most deeply disappointed in you but you,” imbedding a large blunt digit into my chest, “Why am I not surprised that you would invade someone’s privacy? Promise me, that as long as I live here, you will never enter my room without my explicit permission.”

I was actually quite shocked by his reaction and slightly worried he would go me, “I promise that I will not enter your bedroom without permission,” I mumbled.

He didn’t have to come on all serious, he had just got breakfast out of it. “But, we do still have the problem of knowing how to tell if one or both of you have a ‘shag’ staying the night.” I stated.

“Ok, how about if we are having a sleeping over, we tie a shoe to the door handle.” Oliver said.

“And if we want you two to barge in and scare them off, we will hang two shoes and you both can invade and not leave until they have been driven out by your constant chattering,” Elio added, defusing the mood.

“But how will we know that you don’t really have a guest and just want us to deliver you breakfast in bed?” Oscar asked.

“You won’t!” Both Oliver and Elio said simultaneously, laughing at their like-mindedness.

***

We went to the pool with some leftover beers. Gonzo was in the water before all the rest of us had a chance to put our things down. We splashed about washing away the strain of cleaning and the tension of the morning.

I couldn’t believe Oliver was being so mean about a little misunderstanding. The man who was ‘Ok with losing his Montblanc pen; ‘Oh I can buy another!’ Let some random chicks hang off him like a shawl and then leaves poor Elio panting and wanting some ‘quality time’ with him, get all up in your face and uptight with us bringing him some breakfast… _Prick_. A very pretty prick but a prick, nonetheless!

***

We took our usual places poolside. Oscar and I lay in the reclining sun lounges under the two big multi-coloured beach umbrellas and Ginzo lay absorbing the sun with his black coat, dozing blissfully at our feet. I think the night may have taken more out of him.

Oliver swam laps and periodically stopped to sun himself on the edge of the pool and Elio lay in the sun reading music or transcribing whatever he was listening to on his discman. When the heat became too much, we all would dive in and spend an indefinite amount of time in the water and then return to our previous position. The Australians in the shade hiding from the sun and the others soaking it in.

***

“Elio, what are you doing?” Oliver asked as he surfaced from the water and ran a large hand through his wet hair.

“Reading my music!” Elio replied.

“No you weren’t!” Oliver said curtly.

“Thinking then,” shyly retorted Elio.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Elio blurted out.

Oliver indignantly mimicked his tone, “So, you are not going to tell me?

“Nope.”

“Well I guess I will go and talk to the others then,” Oliver said in a defeated tone.

“Oi… Seppo,” Oliver looked up as he climbed out of the pool, “You know your own business, how about you mind it!” I said venomously.

And then to Elio, “Elio, you don’t have to tell him anything. If he wants to keep secrets, then we can have them too.”

“So, you are still annoyed about this morning?” Oliver asked.

_Damn tooting I was still annoyed! What is he hiding in there?_

“How can I make it up to you?” Oliver waited for my reply with an earnest look on his face.

“How about you let me photograph you?” I said quickly.

“In the nude I guess?” he enquired, resolved to knowing what my answer would be.

“Yeppers, stark bollock naked!” I said proudly.

Turning to Oscar, “I guess my answer must be ‘Yes’?” he said winking at Oscar.

Instantly I began to bubble with my idea for the shoot “Excellent, I have a great idea of shooting you on an isolated island in Lake Burley Griffin. But I will need all of your help to pull this off.”

I looked towards Elio to gauge his reaction. He asked, “Will this entail all of us getting naked in a public place?”

“Maybe…” I said sheepishly.

“That would be a definite ‘Yes’, Elio!” Oscar professed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Aussie Glossary:**  
**'Seppo' **\- The term ‘Seppo’ has a rather long and convoluted journey to explain it’s meaning, so please bear with me.
> 
> It fits into three of the Australian preferred humour forms; Abbreviation, rhyming slang and veiled politeness. Dating back to World War II, the Australian relationship with the United States troops were often quite hostile and there was a rather negative perception of the forces barracked in Australia. "Over sexed, over paid and over here!" In this environment the name for Americans stems. Seppo, an abbreviation of rhyming slang for ‘Yank’, ‘Septic Tank’. The intention of the abbreviation is to draw the victim’s attention away from the name and from the actual intention of the selection of the selected rhyming term which is completely intentional. Thus, the implication is that the person who being called ‘Seppo’, like the name sake object is full of shit. It is not a nice name, unless you are friends.
> 
> The slang usage is not to be confused with the Finnish name ‘Seppo’. Interestingly, I had an Uncle in law who was named Seppo. He was a delightful and eclectic man who I miss very much since his passing.


	4. Of snakes and fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four of us swam the couple of hundred metres to the secluded isle with ease. The lake’s water was glassy smooth as the day was hot and windless. We had food and the last-of-our-money 'goon', 35 rolls of film and no one to interrupt our photoshoot.
> 
> Before you read this chapter, to get into the mood, could I suggest you take a couple of moments to listen to this track, The Sundays' 'Summertime'. It sets the mood of the chapter.  
['Summertime' (Spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/track/4WrYLfuJg2wNLwvSRHZwxl?si=VsoHvDeXTA29FPeHj0SMFw)  
['Summertime' (YouTube)](https://youtu.be/Z778slDEsds)  


About a century before they dammed the Molonglo River, one of the first houses in the region stood on the site that would later become Springbank Island. Reputed to be the location of the first ‘white baby’ to be born in the region, the house sat proudly on a high point near a bend in the river and had a marvellous view west towards the Brindabella mountains.

As time moved on the homestead would ultimately be abandoned, with the landholders relocating to the other side of the river. The move had been necessitated by the coming of the annual spring flood which would unleash an onslaught of what felt like every snake in the district converging en masse to the relative safety that the farm house offered on the high ground.

Being the largest of four islands created after the damming, the isolated island was cleared of the house’s ruin in the 1960s and the pre-existing facilities and amenities enabled the construction of an electric barbeque and plumbed toilet block.

In spite of these attractive features the island was difficult to reach, unless you owned a boat or were willing to swim to it and once you were there, there wasn’t much to do. Most Canberrans preferred to flock to the more convenient accessible-by-road parks and picnic spaces in the area.

I had chosen a Tuesday afternoon for our takeover of the island for ‘Artistic Pursuits’ because I knew it would be empty. We emerged from the water like the snakes seeking sanctuary the century before. The four of us swam the couple of hundred metres with ease. The lake’s water was glassy smooth as the day was hot and windless.

I consigned each of us a large plastic container (or ‘esky’) to ferry our provisions safely for the night’s frivolities. I would not trust anyone with my camera, the tripod, 35 rolls of film and the car keys and so that was what I shipped across. Oscar and Oliver floated the plastic containers with my old ghetto blaster, ‘party playlist’ audio tapes, firewood, and 3 torches. Elio had the important task of floating over the esky with the food for the barbeque and the last-of-our-money bag of ‘goon’.

The secluded island was ringed in ageing exotic trees, planted by past homesick inhabitants attempting to bring a little of their mother country to this new land. The dense foliage shielded from view an open expanse of grass and a couple of picnic tables firmly cemented into the ground. We were totally invisible to the passing peak hour traffic driving along Parkes Way under a kilometre away across the water.

Oliver pushed the ‘on’ button of the barbeque and it instantly began to heat. Unsurprisingly, Oliver took command of the barbeque and the rest of us busied ourselves with unpacking our supplies. We had redressed after the swim as soon as we struck land; our awkwardness and body consciousness would seem stupid in a few hours’ time when we all would dance naked together by firelight. Still, we conformed to the norms of clumsily discussing the stillness of the water and the sizzle of the sunlight that was bouncing all around in the summer afternoon. We all knew what we were here for, but we weren’t going to discuss it in advance.

The hum of cicadas and chatter of the birds was soon drowned out with the eclectic selection of tracks that I once thought ‘cool’ and would make a good mixtape for a party. The type of party which I had never been invited to and had only seen in movies or on TV. If I am honest, poolside ‘kicking’ parties were not of much interest to me and I would never have enjoyed or felt comfortable at them anyway.

My youth was full of grand ideas of what I thought would be ‘cool’ and how much my future self would love ‘this or that’. I would desperately run in that direction, and sooner or later I would learn that I would not always finding anything all that interesting at that destination, and then head for another dream location. The tapes were full of aspirations and a hope that there would be a better place and time for me and freedom from the stifling confines of my family home.

It felt like an age since I last made a ‘mix tape’ and the tracks on these tapes were dated and slightly embarrassing, but it would fit the evening mood well enough. I now preferred to hear the music as the ‘artist intended’, in order and in its entirety from the pure source of the LP record or CD. Not like these tapes, missing the beginning or the end as I cut off moments while manually trying to edit the track from the radio.

***

We still had a couple of hours of daylight, so we had time to just relax and enjoy the atmosphere of being in a space completely isolated and alone. We got a camp fire started as the sun made its gradual movement towards the western horizon and ate at one on the tables provided.

The burgers and sausage sandwiches went down well, as did the goon. Elio tried to fight the addition to the burgers of pineapple, which then made Oliver ark up about the sliced beetroot on his. I was adamant and insistent that when in Australia, its Australian style or go hungry. Elio went on to complain about the quality of the two-litre cask of ‘goon’. But his protests ended by the third or fourth round of ‘goon of fortune’.

I had begun to spin a bottle of tomato sauce around on the table top. The person it stopped on would have to drink straight from the ‘goon bag’. Next spin stopped in front of Elio, who took the bag with gusto. Oliver was obviously a little nervous, as he gulped more wine than the rest of us each time it landed on him.

To defuse the situation, I began to fiddle with my camera. I set up the tripod in the approximate location where the action would take place and loaded a roll of film into the camera. Snapping erratically, I tested my focus and filled the first roll with numerous shots of our happy group.

With a new roll, I went in close to each of them with a lens too big for close-ups, with the intention of making them self-conscious and desensitising them to the intrusive nature of being filmed. I slowly moved out of their faces and they began to become natural again, relaxing with each successive shot that was fired off.

Oscar gave me a knowing nod and took off his shirt. He had survived several of my photoshoots and so would lead the others through the experience. The others followed suit. I turned the music up and we all relaxed into the steady beat of the trashy pop, blasting from the dodgy stereo speakers.

Oliver, who was by now a little drunk and bored from waiting to be asked to undress, wrenched his shorts down and stood arms outstretched with palms raised like a pre-Raphaelite Jesus. He was lean and toned and his tanned body drew the eye downward to the lighter areas. The yellowed evening sun made his hairs shine in the golden light. His skin tone was emphasised by his darker blonde pubic hairs. He was a truly breathtaking spectacle to see in his full glory, and he knew it. I just had to get him to stand in a less awkward position so I could capture all of him.

I looked over to Oscar and Elio, who both sat a couple of metres away with their mouths open in stunned awe.

“Whaaat… isn’t this what we are here for?” Oliver asked in a concerned but slightly drunken way.

“Yeppers. We sure are,” I said turning to the others and stated dispassionately, “You may as well join him.”

Elio looked slightly worried. I hadn’t expected him to become shy at a little nudity._ He’s European for god’s sake._

“It’s as easy as this!” I said stepping out of my bathers.

Nervously he stood and his trunks hit the ground. He stood in a slightly awkward pose reminiscent of Donatello’s David. His elegant and long tanned limbs culminated in his silky chestnut pubes, his cock nervously peeking out of the nest of hair. I loved the contrast against the golden bulk of Oliver’s form and his lean shape. Elio couldn’t help but naturally fall into classical poses every time he moved. It was delightful to watch, and I couldn’t resist capturing it to his obvious discomfort.

As I barked directions at each model to take certain positions in the space that I allocated them, Oliver unsuccessfully tried to interpret my intention. I suddenly realised that he didn’t have the same background experience of classical art as Elio. Oscar had had years of me cultivating an understanding about art, but Oliver had no idea what I wanted or what he needed to look like. “Elio, could you put Oliver into a Michelangelo’s ‘David’ pose?”

Elio lifted Oliver’s arm and made him put the weight onto his back leg. “Perfect! Thank you… Now Oliver don’t move!”

I came up close to his face the sun shone through his eyes, making the blue sparkle. The shadows stretched out across his strong jaw and reinforced the prominent beauty of this man’s features. Slowly dropping down to my knees, I snapped frame after frame, down the sensual curves of his rippling body. The tuft of blonde hair at the base of his spine, burnt like flames in the afternoon light, heralded the magnificence of the curve of his rump. There are not enough adjectives to describe the splendour of that man’s arse.

He shifted slightly away from the lens as I moved around to his front. His cock lay blunt and uninterested on his full ball sack which was pushed forward by the quadriceps in his upper thigh. The fading light lit his body and my mind began to whirr with ideas of what I could get him to do. This had been a great starting point, I was loving everything about it.

As I bent over the bucket of film, I saw Oliver playfully shove Elio. Oliver was becoming more relaxed and was revelling in the attention, which made me extremely happy. His expression would be more interesting if he was enjoying himself. I put it down to the large volume of ‘goon’ that he had consumed but it wasn’t just that. Deep down he was a complete exhibitionist. I had chosen the right subject of my photographs.

I signalled to Oscar, who had discreetly undressed while I was caught up in capturing the other two men’s forms. He was almost blasé about being nude in front of my camera. He went over and grabbed two of the torches from a crate and lit them in the fire. The flames caught quickly and produced a soft light and a lovely haze of smoke. He handed one to Elio. I hadn’t noticed until I zoomed in on him, how the regular exercise with Oliver had tightened Oscar’s physique and balanced him nicely with Elio’s lean body against the enormous mass of Oliver’s six-foot-five stature.

I kneeled at Oliver’s feet and shot up across his body and towards his face. He gave me an uncertain look as both Oscar and Elio thrust their torches in Oliver’s direction. Shielding his body with his arms he stepped back into a perfect replica of Denis Foyatier’s ‘Spartacus’. They started to taunt him and goad him with the flames, which cast magical shadows over all three of them. The sun had just dipped behind the distant hills and so the flames became the only source of light on the island, changing the mood of the images being captured on the film.

“Fight back Oliver!” I shouted over the commotion and the pop soundtrack.

“You know I played State Football. I can take these two!” Oliver screamed confidently.

_He was getting cocky._ “What about three?” I asked.

Clicking the camera into the tripod, I grabbed a torch and joined the attack. The camera was set on ‘auto focus’ with a timer set to 20 second intervals and with a 3-frame burst mode. I had a stilted 4 minutes of action for each roll of film. We were flying at each other in a bacchanalian frenzy of fire and flesh. He shoved each of us out of the way as he defended his position. His physical strength overcome all of us and sent each of us flying in different directions. He would get guilty periodically, as one of us would land heavily and he would extend a firm hand to right ourselves again.

In the warm evening air, all our skins gleamed from the exertion and glowed against the darkening island. Oliver was at the centre of all the action, his form shone like a gladiator in golden armour flickering in the firelight.

After 8 rolls of hard-fought ‘Roman frieze like’ shots, we needed to break to draw our breath and we took it in turns to gulp thirstily from the ‘goon bag’.

Once refreshed, I was checking the light meter and gazed through the lens, while explaining the next image setup that I wanted to do. As I described how I wanted Oliver’s hands tied, I saw something bounce through him. No one else would have noticed it, but Oliver’s prick gave an involuntary throb of excitement as the idea pulsed through his body. _There was more to this lad than it appeared. Did he have a thing for ropes, the dirty little fucker? _

I continued to discreetly observe Oliver’s bodily reaction through the lens. While Elio looped the rope around Oliver’s broad wrists, Elio angelically looked up into Oliver’s broad features, Oliver’s cock gave another buck. He was almost semi-hard by the time he was fully tied. This wouldn’t do.

I had to change the mood of the shoot or it would quickly slide into some ‘bad porn’ rather than the ‘considered art’ that I intended these images to portray.

“Oliver, I want a bit more emotion in this next lot of photos. Do you think you can cry on call?” I asked professionally.

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied flatly.

“What about if I kicked you in the balls? Would that help?”

As my words hit home, his hands instinctively moved to protect himself and with that his ‘semi’ was gone. _Problem solved._

The fire we had lit earlier was now a full high blaze, the surrounding trees closed in on us as the night became pitch black on our private island. The boys made a solemn procession towards the fire light. Oscar in front with the torch held high, followed by Elio dragging a struggling Oliver. He was doing a great job to look worried. I was shooting from below and on the other side of the fire. The light lit their bodies in a supernatural spectacle.

I rapidly shot as Oliver ripped the rope out of Elio’s hands, bodily grabbing him even though his hands were tied, and cast the smaller lad over his shoulder and bolted towards the flames. Elio fought for release as Oliver bounded over the fire, shrieking and roaring as he went. The shot was so dynamic as two men entwined shapes were licked by the flames; landing inches from my lens!

After a couple more attempts with Oliver hamming up each take, we were all tired from too much intensive concentration and ‘goon’ and I called it a day. I was happy with what had been captured, and the pressure was now off until I began to develop the film. Who knows what gems I would find in the darkroom?

Throwing the ‘goon bag’ at Oliver, he caught it in his still tied hands and poured wine out of the bladder. More spilled over his face and body than was captured in his mouth. He shook off the droplets and began to dance along with the clubby remix playing from the ghetto blaster. His enthusiasm was infectious. I snapped a few random shots to finish the film in the camera.

We drank and danced and sang along until we were all concerned about our ability to safely swim back to the car on the mainland. We quenched the fire after we had our boxes repacked and swam away from this magical island. Our clothes sat heavy on us as we drove. Elio and Oliver bubbled with drunken conversation until we arrived safely home to Cordium Street and Oscar snoozed through the ten-minute drive. Gonzo greeted us with suspicion and furious looks as he smelt the stink of parks and picnics which he wasn’t invited to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Art reference guide.**  
  
How Oliver looked after he dropped his shorts.  
  
An awkward Elio after he dropped his shorts.  
  
Oliver when attacked with torches.  
**Aussie Glossary:**  
**'Goon' or 'Goon Bag' **\- The term for the wine that is sold in casks and contained in a silver foil bladder. Exceedingly cheap, poor quality and awful tasting. But also easy to transport and is the favourite topple of teenagers and university students. The aim is to drink quickly and forget how bad the wine tastes.
> 
> The flexibility of the packaging had lead to numerous variations on drinking games including 'Goon of fortune' a variation on the spin the bottle and a play on the tv-show name 'Wheel of fortune'.  
The goon bag is hung from a rotatory clothes line (Hill's Hoist) and where is stops the person has to drink from the bag. When inside you use a bottle and the bag is passed to the person who the bottle points to and they must drink form the bag.
> 
> The players of these games usually end up throwing up or with terrible hangover or both. I do not recommend playing these types of games.


	5. All about that Pash!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscar and I over hear a discussion about something that happened between Elio and Oliver.
> 
> Before you read this chapter, please listen to this track to set the mood. Kate Cebrano's 'Pash'.  
['Pash' (Spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/track/03Bgy8sbBMxyQ3yYNwhTxR?si=u00r1fSKQCC-TWZWTC4IDw)  
['Pash' (YouTube)](https://youtu.be/o_kTor63Ihw)  


_“And even if I am in love with you,_  
_all this to say, what's it to you?_  
_Observe the blood, the rose tattoo,_  
_of the fingerprints on me from you._

_Other evidence has shown,_  
_that you and I are still alone._  
_We skirt around the danger zone_  
_and don't talk about it later._

_And I tried so hard to resist,_  
_when you held me in your handsome fist,_  
_And reminded me of the night we kissed_  
_And of why I should be leaving.”_

'Marlene on the wall' – **Susanne Vega**.

Most of February flew by, with so much more work than I could have ever imagined that I could get done in such a short time. I barely had time to wank.

It took over a week for me to develop all the rolls of film from our island photoshoot and then I started to produce the proof sheets of the resulting images. I berated myself for usual issues of lack of focus or poor composition. Yes, I know photography is not just a science, there is room for it to be art as well, but a blurry photo is just shit. The gradual change in lighting had an interesting effect on the resulting images. Along with a weird malfunction with my camera which happened while it was shooting burst shots, the automation had failed and so I had captured a collection triple exposure which I would end up using in a different series.

Ultimately, I had four triptychs of images which would become the core of my semester’s artworks. The large-scale images would be made up of two 1 metre square images on either side bracketing one large image 2 metres by 1 metre. This amount of paper will require me to purchase several 40 metre rolls of colour photo paper that cost a hefty $450 each. I spent every spare moment coming up with ingenious ways of earning more cash to pay for the project.

Mary let me take on two extra shifts a week at the bookshop, which was under the proviso that I kept bringing in my proofs of the photoshoot for her to get her jollies out of. She did have a certain fascination with Oliver or was it his cock? Who can tell?

I hated to do it but had to call my parents for a loan as well. I couldn’t get enough money together in time and so they gave me my birthday and Christmas money early to help me out. Art is not cheap and large-scale work is less so.

With the semester in full swing, Cordium Street was a hive of industry. Our working hours varied, and I was completely out of sync with everyone else. I barely got to see Oscar or the boys until Sunday mornings. They all left early most weekday mornings for their lectures, tutorials or study groups and I was sleeping off my night before. When they came home, I was at work or was working in the darkroom. The best time for me to work was from 4pm until midnight. I had to work outside of normal hours so I could have the colour darkrooms to myself. When using such large paper, all it took was one distracted first year to walk in and fog hundreds of dollars of paper and I couldn’t afford to risk it. I worked in a vacuum of my own creation and the results were blowing my mind.

I had Sunday mornings off and that was Oscars and my time to catch up and try to make up for missing out on each other all week. I ran my hand along his sleeping body. The heat of the day was already intense and made both of us a little sticky in the bed. The sliding door out to the ‘Zen courtyard garden’ filled the room with fresh air and the damp earth smell as the heat of the day steamed off any moisture. Gonzo snored on the end of the bed and as soon as we started up, he wandered off to the sofa in disgust.

Nuzzling in behind him, my hand expertly lowered his jocks and with the use of one foot, I slipped them down to his feet. I had full access to him. The rapidity of the action woke him, and he planted a kiss to the side of my face. I grabbed his cock firmly in my right hand and started fisting it rapidly. It stiffened rapidly and so I was stroking him into full consciousness. He let out a groan and I sped up my pace.

From the balcony which overlooked our ‘zen garden’ outside our sliding door I heard another door open and realised that one of our housemates must have been standing out there and was now joined by the other.

“Can I bum one of those?” Oliver asked.

“I thought you didn’t smoke?!” retorted Elio.

“I don’t!” Oliver replied. And I heard him click a lighter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Oliver continued.

“Like what?” Elio asked in a sulky tone.

“We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of…”

Oscar grunted under my manipulation and I panicked. Either they would hear him or worse I would miss out on an important point in this very private and extremely interesting conversation that we shouldn’t have be listening to. I slapped my hand over his mouth and tugged harder and faster. This change of pace had the effect that I wanted and obviously it excited him more, he increased his writhing and thrusted his fat dick harder into my hand.

“I want to be good,” Oliver continued.

“Does that mean we are talking… but not really.” Elio expanded.

“Not at all. I just don’t think it’s good for us to do it again.”

Elio blurted, “What? Was it that bad?”

“Elio, it was nice…. but we shouldn’t mess up our living arrangement like that.”

“Nice…. It was nice! What do you mean? Fuck you!” Elio yelled and I heard him slide the door on his room shut.

Oscar erupted into my hand and I leant over and kissed him hard as he panted into my mouth.

After we both showered together, I was getting dressed and I heard Oliver stomp down the stairs sulkily.

“I think you should take him out for a run. I threw Oscar Gonzo’s lead, “You two still need to make it up to Gonzo for going out without him all week!” Oliver happily pulled on his running shoes when he was asked to go. The three off them set off for a run around the lake and I had to move quickly.

***

With two hot cups of coffee, I knocked on Elio’s door. He was laying face down on his bed with a pillow over his head.

“Hey Elio, how ya doing?” I asked with genuine concern.

He mumbled something. I sat on the side of his bed and asked if he wanted to talk about it. I think I had said little more than five words to either boys in the last two weeks and so I was happy to get a chance to chat to Elio without the other two around.

“So, you two heard all that then,” he said and I nodded. “That’s pretty embarrassing,” he said with a groan for effect.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” Elio begun.

“Nope, but I do believe there are some people who will come into your life at certain points who will shake it up for better or for worse. So, is it love?” I replied thoughtfully.

“Don’t know. I don’t even know if he is into guys. Do you think he likes guys?” Elio blurted out,

“What actually happened between you two?”

“We were up late watching some crappy ‘Golden Years of Hollywood’ movie on channel 10 and Gonzo was sitting between us. He kept us on either side of the sofa and was taking all the loving he could get from both of us. That dog is such a pat slut. Anyway, I caught Oliver looking at me a couple of times and so I started to look back at him. Back and forth it went on for most of the movie. I thought he was mad at me or something. He had that glaring look that he has on his face. When Gonzo got up to cool off and stretch, he lent in and kissed me,” Elio said.

“He didn’t say anything, he just pashed you?” I said, “Hot!”

“Not really hot. All he said after was, ‘Are you better now?’”

“Was he saying it to you or to himself?” I commented.

“Well I took it as he was saying it to me,” Elio stated and then replied again after thinking about it, “But to be honest I don’t really know who it was for? He didn’t wait for a reply, he went straight to bed after that. And we haven’t really spoke to him since. The silence is killing me.”

“But he did say it was nice,” I encouraged him.

“Nice... is a skirt a girl wears to a party in year 9 or the pair of socks that you get for Christmas from your Grandmother,” Elio shouted at me in his frustration, “Nice is what you say about your first fuck, because you are so freaked out by how violated you feel by the intimacy and you don’t know what else to say, and that you really just want to run away.”

Elio threw his head into my lap and sobbed out his frustration.

Ok, I hated seeing my friend like this, more so seeing him like this over one of our housemates. I had to help.

I started to think about what I knew about Oliver. His phone conversations were embarrassingly short, his parents would ring the house phone every couple of weeks and would curtly ask for their son. He would speak for 2 to 3 minutes max and then he would hang up. It was odd and very cold.

The last time Elio’s parents rang, often twice a week, I chatted to Mama and Papa Perlman for a good ten minutes. They would both be on the line when they rang. It was very sweet. They were very interested in my work and my adventures and how Elio fitted into these adventures. I told them how I had helped Elio find a part time job at the local fresh food markets and how his work was progressing, thanks to us lugging his bloody piano up the stairs, which they were eternally grateful for. I was having such a great chat that I almost forgot to inform Elio that they were on the phone. I ended my conversation with many ‘ciaos’ and ‘arrivederci’ and felt a little sad not to chat more with them.

The difference between the two families’ personalities couldn’t be more marked.

I pulled up Elio’s head out of my lap and into my face. I looked into his puffy red eyes which set off his large peridot eyes perfectly. “Stop your crying over this guy. We need to be proactive about this. If you really want to know about what a guy is into, you need to find his porn stash. Any porn will tell us what we want to know. If we can find a porno video tape, that is even better. The point where the video has stopped at is the point where it got him off and we will know what turns him on. But first where would he keep his stash?” I asked.

We both trudged Towards the door of Oliver’s room I stopped.

“I promised Oliver I would never enter his room without permission. I am many things, but I am a man of my word, so I can’t enter his room without his explicit permission. You have not made such a promise, so you will be going in alone,” I said and gave him a shove through the door.

“Now lay on his side of the bed,” I instructed Elio, “pretend you have freakishly long arms and see how far you can reach.”

“I can reach almost to the cupboard, but the bedside drawers are closer,” Elio described his exploration.

“Feel along the mattress, then…” I said and then thought for a moment, “Then try the bottom draw. He is not a ‘top draw’ porn sort of guy.”

“Bingo!” Elio cried.

“Remember precisely where it is and how it is laying before moving it. You must put it back in exactly the same position so he doesn’t know that you have been snooping,” I declared.

“We have been snooping. You may not be in his room, but you are so behind this. You cannot play some sort of innocent bystander in this!” Elio said victoriously.

“Tom-ay-to Tom-ar-to... hurry up and bring them here,” I yelled at him.

On top was the ‘Black labelled Penthouse’. Very usual and boring petrol station porn, guys fucking chicks, yawn. The next magazine was 1980’s copy of ‘Razzle’, all big hair and bad makeup. Trashy but he would have kept this for a reason. And the last magazine, ‘Boyblue’, was now very interesting.

“He’s bi… at least. You don’t have Boyblue in your wank bank for the articles and knitting patterns.” I declared.

Elio nodded. As we both flicked through Oliver’s private life, I noticed something that maybe only a trained eye would. Each centre fold was Brunettes, longish wavy hair and of fine refined European appearance and a thin frame with full lips. Whether female or male, Oliver had a type. I pointed this out to Elio who stood open mouthed as the realisation hit him.

“I bet you a million dollars that he is no gay virgin,” I said.

“How do you know?” Elio asked.

“It’s just the feeling I get!” I said obliquely.

By the time the three jogging boys arrived home, we were relaxing on the sofa watching crap tv. I had a few minutes before I had to leave for my shift at the bookshop and I eyeballed Oliver as he entered and looked at Elio. Oscar gave me a look of knowing that I was up to something, but he said nothing. I overly theatrically welcomed them all home and asked Gonzo what he thought about his tour. He panted happily as reply.

***

I had it stuck in my head. There was more to Oliver’s weird behaviour than meets the eye. As I worked in the darkroom into the evening on Monday night, I searched through my negatives for more proof of Oliver’s attraction to Elio. I focused my enlarger on many shots that I took on the island and then one stood out.

As we taunted Oliver with the fiery torches we pushed and shoved each other and at one-point Elio fell over. Oliver stopped fighting and reached his long arm down to raise the fallen boy as he did it. His right hand trailed along Elio’s jaw and their devoted longing was captured forever in the frame.

I enlarged the section cropping it to emphasise the detail of the intimate gesture and printed three copies. One I would slip under Elio’s door with a note saying, ‘He is no straight boy!’ The second, I slid under Oliver’s door with a note saying, ‘The alchemy of light and movement and love.’ The third was for Oscar, Mary and anyone else who would listen to my brilliant detective work about the romance happening in Cordium Street.

***

Oscar, the ever sensible one, warned me to back off and let the boys sort themselves out. He knew Oliver would not like to have his privacy invaded nor his personal life discussed. He felt that I should mind my own business.

“It’s our house too. If we can help Oliver with that closet door, what harm would we be doing?” I asked.

“If Oliver punches you in your big fat nosy nose, I will not stop him or begrudge him doing it. You are out of control, my love,” Oscar said matter-of-factly.

“How could he punch my little button nose?” I said and kissed him firmly on the mouth. I had no regrets for any of my actions or for giving the two boys upstairs a bit of a shove.


	6. Like clay in his hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I opened my eyes I am greeted by two glacial blue eyes attached to an angry looking housemate.
> 
> If you are enjoying this. Leave a message.

A very large and very insistent digit tapping on my chest woke me. I opened my eyes to be greeted by two glacial blue eyes attached to an angry looking housemate.

“We need to have a chat,” a gruff voice announced.

“Where is Oscar, has he left already?” I sleepily asked.

“Both of them have gone to uni and I stayed back to talk to you,” Oliver said, containing his hostility.

“Ok, shoot… Actually, I shouldn’t say that to an American, should I?” I joked. Oliver obviously wasn’t in a joking mood.

“You once said for me to mind my own business when it comes to Elio and I think you should heed your own advice.”

“Oh, really?” I asked inquisitively.

“Don’t pretend to play ‘the good host’ when really you are just fulfilling your own sycophantic fantasies and imposing your own ‘homo’ monotony on this whole household.”

“So, you think that I am the one who is organising all the ‘pash and dash’ movie nights, do you? I wouldn’t be so sadistic as to leave our mutual friend, all sad and confused,” I said, starting to get annoyed.

“Just butt out alright,” he said. “I just prefer to work these things out with the one involved. If you don’t mind.”

“If I can ask one thing? Please don’t shit on his leg and tell him it’s a brown kitten,” I implored him coldly.

Oliver’s face lit up with the hugest smirk, as the words washed over him. “Where the fuck do ‘you people’ get these sayings from?” he chuckled.

Not to be deterred, I continued, “I’m serious. He doesn’t need to be fucked around by some overgrown Disney prince, ok!”

“I didn’t plan for this ‘thing’ to happen.”

“None of us can tell where our hearts will land. Just decide what you want from this ’thing,’” I used ‘air quotes’ to emphasise ‘thing’, “and then please tell him, so he doesn’t feel like a total idiot for fancying you.”

His head hung heavy with the weight of my word’s and he nodded.

He raised his head and a looked intently at me. “Also, can you stop plastering the fridge with photos of my prick?”

“It’s just a couple of random knob shots. It could be anyone’s,” I said defiantly.

“The pubes are not ginger, so it’s not Oscar’s and they’re not brunette so that cuts out you and Elio… so that leaves only one person and I think I know my own dick.”

“So… you have been checking out our junk then big guy? Like what you see?” I laughed.

“Don’t change the subject you big perve,” Oliver protested, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Speaking of changing the subject, you have to see the prints I produced last night.”

I unrolled the first of my 2-metre prints over the dining table, moving objects out of the way as it unrolled fully. When I developed it, I had oversaturated the colours and burnt in the backgrounds, so the firelit bodies exploded out of their surroundings. Oliver stood imposingly solid in the centre of the image staring calmly and defiantly into the camera. He appears to be oblivious to the three of us goading him with the fire torches, except both his arms are outstretched and pushing us away. His gigantic body looks regal and resplendent in the contrast to the three other figures, like moths around a flame.

The detail was sharp and clear, making us all look like we were trapped in amber. The torch light distorted and emphasized different parts of our bodies. Oliver’s carpet of golden hairs covering his body was captured perfectly, gleaming in the light, almost giving him a halo of sacred blessing; the gods outdid themselves when they created him.

His reaction was even better than expected. He let out a gasp of shock and awe and took a step back to get a better view of the whole large photograph.

“We look like a Roman marble frieze,” I enthused.

“This is totally unexpected. The scale is just extraordinary and dramatic. But I have to correct you, this looks more Greek than Roman. We look like the athletes on Greek red figured pottery. Let me show you what I mean,” Oliver said as he bolted upstairs. Taking three treads at a time, I heard a number of bangs and crashes and then he reappeared at the top of the stairs with a big book in his hands. Flipping through pages of different classical objects and sculpture he stopped on a page with a big black pot on it.

“Elio’s Dad is a professor in archaeology and would be able to tell you more about this stuff, but the Greeks began making red figure pottery in Athens from about 500 BC. The pots featured a burnt black background and figures were carved into the terracotta below and when it’s fired the natural red colour of the clay glows out of the dark background much like your pictures.” He explained in a studied authoritative tone.

I turned page after page of astonishing images. Oliver pointed out details until we came to the part he knew would interest me most and then he pushed the book over to me. Each pot or vase or cup featured erotic images of various genders engaging in sexual acts; men with women, men with men, it was all pretty sexy.

“Are you trying to show me that I am ‘classically filthy’?” I jokingly asked.

“No, but your work does stem from an ancient source and you are connecting your viewers to classical concepts of balance, symmetry and harmony in the human body which your viewer will intrinsically conceive as ‘beauty’ from the classical context and western cultural norms. We are all nostalgic for this ancient ratio and your art is making us reminise for things we never know but instinctively knew are beautiful.”

I stood there flabbergasted. And then a solid idea struck me. “Do you fancy writing an essay about ‘classical beauty’ in relation to my work for my end of semester exhibition catalogue?” I asked.

“Sure… but will you stop sticking my dick on the fridge?” Oliver asked with a reinstated determined look on his face.

I like that he was learning to negotiate for our mutually beneficial outcome.

“Fine, no more dicks. What about your arse?”

“Now you are pushing it… ‘mate!’” Oliver said ‘mate’ in a mock Australian accent.

“Look at you becoming all ‘dinky-di’ on us! Next you will be trying to ‘tie me kangaroo down, sport!’” I said with a laugh.

“Do ‘you people’ actually understand half the crap you are saying?” he asked.

“Most of the time, but we don’t let it bother us if we don’t. We just presume that the other is insulting us. If they are a friend, then that’s ok. If they are not, we just tell them to piss off,” I said as I walked away and headed back to bed.

I didn’t have to be up just yet and I thought I could catch some more sleep.

***

I woke with a start a couple of hours later. An idea has begun to formulate in my sleeping mind. I bolted out of the bed to the living room and found Oliver asleep on the sofa with Gonzo. _God, those philosophy students do it hard!_ I was going to ask him if I could borrow his Greek pot book. The two were so adorably cute that I left them to their peaceful slumber and just took the book.

Turning on my heels and storming out the front door, I was completely under prepared and un-showered as I walked across the suburb to search the op shops and charity stores for tea-towels. My idea was to get a pile of tourist tea-towels and quilt them into the shape of the Greek pots, amphora and lekythos. I wanted to pick out particularly detailed sections of the towels to emphasise tone through the denseness of colour and/or pattern, thus implying the shape of the object in a two-dimensional form.

The towels reconnect the work to the domestic nature of the original Greek household items and would soften my central motif of the photographic images. My photographs would be torn, reconstructed and embroidered to make a representation of the ancient object in two dimensions.

With an arm full of ‘20 cent towels’, I rushed off to the university to lay out, cut out and construct my pots. Taking over a large table in the textiles department, I cut, pinned and once completely satisfied, I commandeered a sewing machine and begin to quilt the pots together. Chatting as I worked with one of my weaver friends Kelly, she suggested that I use some ribbon to encircle the pots in a sinuous flowing line which would further soften the pots and add another layer of meaning. Along the banner-like ribbons, she suggested embroidering them with quotes from some Greek tragedy or poem or something of that sort. I had decided to head to the library once I had finished the sewing. Then it hit me. If I could find Elio, I could pick his brain as he would know the right sort of quotes that I should use.

***

I found him right where I expected to find him. He was skulking in the music school’s quad, resting his head in some girl’s lap. She was twisting his hair into little buns and inserting small daisies into each one. He almost looked like he had a halo of flowers.

_Bloody hippies!_ I thought to myself. _Am I really the only student doing any work in this whole university?_ I bet you a million dollars, Oscar is somewhere here drinking coffee and chatting to someone in some archaic form of Estonian or something.

I began to question Elio, “I hear that your Dad is an archaeologist. You wouldn’t happen to have some sort of sexy ancient Greek quotes that I could use to put around some of my prints?”

“Well, recently I have been rereading the Iliad. Look for the book in my backpack,” he said, gesturing towards his yellow and blue backpack on the ground, without getting up from his horizontal position.

I rummaged for the book and found a dog-eared copy of the Iliad and from it fell a sheet of paper. In a scratchy hand, I found four quotes.

_"So on they fought like a swirl of living fire -_

_You could not say if the sun and moon still stood secure,_

_So dense the battle-haze that engulfed the brave_

_Who stood their ground to defend Patroclus' body." _

― Homer, Book 17, lines 421-424.

_“…There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of longing, _

_the lover’s _ _whisper, irresistible—magic _

_to make the sanest man, go mad.”_

― Homer, The Iliad Book 14, Lines 259-261.

_“There is nothing alive more agonized than man _

_of all that breathe _ _and crawl across the earth.”_

― Homer, The Iliad Book 17, lines 515-516

_“Why have you come to me here, _

_dear heart, with all these _ _instructions? _

_I promise you I will do everything just as you ask. _

_But _ _come closer. _

_Let us give in to grief, however briefly, in each other's _ _arms.”_

― Homer, The Iliad Book 23, Lines 101-105.

I asked, “Have you been pining for some blonde Adonis housemate?”

“More like Achilles; the supremely handsome half-god with supernatural strength and undying loyalty to Patroclus.”

“Didn’t Patroclus die before the end?”

“We all must die sooner or later. But oh… how they lived,” he said with passion in his voice.

“Elio, you are way too gothic for me,” I said. “At least your musing won’t go to waste, these will work perfectly for my idea.”

Sheepishly Elio enquired, “I need to ask, do you mind if my parents come to stay next month?” Elio raised his head to look at me squarely in the face, to see my reaction. “I know we will be a bit crowded, but I would love for you all to get to know them.”

From all the phone conversations that I have had with Mama and Papa Perlman, I was more enamoured with them than possibly my own parents and definitely more than Oscar’s Mum and Dad. Without a second thought I said “Sure, they can have our room as it has the ensuite bathroom. I will have to ask Oscar, but he won’t mind.”

***

We called a house meeting when we were all home. I had primed Oscar and he was onboard with giving up our room to the Perlmans. I thought I would leave it to Elio to talk Oliver around.

He began, “Oliver, you don’t mind my parents staying for a couple of weeks, do you?”

“Well it wont really impact on me, so sure. Plus, I would like to meet your father. I have read a couple of his books.”

“You never told me that,” Elio said.

“I didn’t want you to think I was some sort of stalker but I took archaeology in my undergrad.”

“You also never told me that.”

“There are lots of things you don’t know about me Elio,” Oliver replied sharply, their eyes meeting in an inexplicable way.

“Please tell me that you don’t vote for George Bush,” a concerned Elio asked.

“No I didn’t… that would be my parents,” Oliver divulged.

Changing the subject back to the heart of the matter. I said matter-of-factly, “While Elio’s parents are with us, he intended we take his room and he would sleep on the sofa. Since you have that gigantic bed, I thought it would be best for Gonzo’s sleeping patterns, if you and Elio shared a bed. ‘Top and tails’ of course.”

Oliver’s eyes turned to me with the same icy blue intensity that he had blasted me with that very morning.

As he opened his mouth to speak, Elio caught his gaze and the green in his enormous eyes sparkled in the evening light. They had already worked their magic on him as Elio said, “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

Oliver’s face softened as he said, “Oh,” and stuttered with a sigh, “I wouldn’t mind you bunking in with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are some examples from Oliver's book of Greek red and black pottery.  
  
  
  
  
  
[](https://ibb.co/JRmDPSD)


	7. Meanwhile on Cordium Street part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Perlman’s arrival was one of nervous anticipation and a rigorous cleaning rota. 'I' falls under the spell of both of Elio's parents.

The weekend before the Perlman’s arrival was one of nervous anticipation. I had divided the house into cleaning zones and allocated each housemate a specific space. Oliver was to clean his room, this was more for Elio’s safety than any thought that the parents would want to see it. His other task was the lounge and dining room. Elio was allotted his room and the study and stairs. Oscar was allocated the kitchen and the hall, and I took the lion’s share of the work; our room and both bathrooms, because I had to be sure that they were done right.

It’s not like I didn’t trust the boys’ cleaning ability or to do a good job, it’s just that I didn’t want to have to bathe in their grime or have Elio’s parents judge us as uncivilized barbarians. The overgrown ‘American frat boy’ and the ‘first time out of home’ Italian boy had no idea about how to do these things properly.

They proved me right when I went to the lounge room to borrow the vacuum and found Oliver asleep with Gonzo on the sofa. I reminded him that I wanted the ceiling fan and the high dusting done too. As I went past Elio, on my way to the upstairs bathroom, I found him reclining casually reading a book that he obviously found while dusting the bookshelves. I reiterated to him, how his mother would not like to see that he is living in squalor and that he should get on before the day was over.

I powered on, getting the bathrooms shining and then decided to take on the mammoth task of cleaning the exterior windows. We hadn’t touched them since we moved in and they were not going to distract from our deep cleaning of the rest of the house.

I set up the small ladder outside the kitchen window and noticed that the ‘so-called’ love of my life was not in there. Stepping down from the ladder, I went inside to check on his whereabouts and how he was progressing with the tasks I had allocated to him. I then discovered that all the household had also gone missing, this included Gonzo. My mood turned from slightly annoyed, through a shade of purple and into white hot anger!

I found my recalcitrant housemates relaxing by the pool. Gonzo greeted me at the gate and upon reading my expression, wisely headed for the relative safety of the pool. Oscar met me part way to the table that they were sitting at. It turned out that he had led the revolt and had supplied the beer and snacks to the others. I apparently had needed to work through my ‘cleaning frenzy’ on my own. If looks could kill, we would have had a triple homicide on our hands, and I don’t think that Gonzo would have been any use in helping to move the bodies.

I was shaking with fury. Elio decided to mention at this point that his parents were very laid back and wouldn’t mind how the house looked. Oscar chimed in by very unwisely telling me to ‘calm down’.

“Calm down??” I shouted at him, “Don’t ever tell me to calm ‘the fuck’ down!”

As I ranted my frustrations at Oscar, Oliver silently puffed on a cigarette and pretended to be preoccupied with a tree off in the distance. I was so angry that I almost couldn’t speak. I was physically shaking as I took the beer out of Oscar’s hand and walked to the edge of the pool and sat down on the steps submerging myself in the pool. I felt better for being in the cool and crisp water even if I was still fully clothed. I decided that if they were not going to take this seriously why the fuck should I?

“Fucken hell… you mob shit me!” I spat at them as I quickly downed the beer.

I clicked my fingers at Oscar and made the universal drinking symbol for another beer and he acquiesced faster than had I imagined. He was trying to make amends.

Gonzo dropped his favourite tennis ball at my feet and nosed it to me until I threw it into the deep end of the pool. Delighted at this shift of attention to him, he excitedly swam the length of the pool and returned the slobber covered ball to me. I took a swig from the second beer and threw the ball again. After about ten throws, Elio bought over a packet of salt and vinegar potato chips, he knows they are my weakness and sat next to me on the edge of the pool.

Elio broke the silence, “You know they are just visiting to see me, not the house?”

I said nothing in reply, I hoped my silence spoke volumes.

***

Down the air-stairs stepped Elio’s parents and he squeaked with excitement at the sight. Only Elio and I went to collect his parents from Canberra Airport as the car would fit all their luggage but not any more of us.

Elio’s mother was a tall and elegant woman with long auburn hair and bright wide eyes similar to her son’s. She was strikingly beautiful and dressed in a suited dress that was straight off the catwalks of Milan and made everyone at the arrivals gate look under dressed. She wrapped herself tightly around her son and barraged him with rapid fire Italian before pushing him away, so she could inspect hm and then began to berate him again. He responded in words that I didn’t understand but the tone was universal. It sounded like he was trying to defend himself and justify his poor lifestyle decisions.

Papa Perlman stood back and watched his family bicker and his beloved wife fuss over their only child, with an impish grin dancing over his features. I stuck out my hand to him and he pulled into an enormous bear hug. I had forgotten he was American until that point, his gregarious and loving personality shining through.

We walk to the car with Elio entwined between both his parents and I pointed out things that I thought they would find interesting and I continued my monologue as we drove through the parliamentary triangle along the lake. I chose this route as it showed off the best views of our monumental architecture that this city possessed. It was their first visit to this nation’s capital, and I was determined to show them the best that this city had to offer. They nodded appreciatively and it soon became clear they weren’t listening to my travelogue.

***

Being a gracious host, I lifted the first suitcase out of the boot of my old station wagon and then the second more ratty looking case and it nearly broke my back. I enquired, “What have you got in here, rocks?”

“Books actually, I am hoping to get some reading in while here!” Papa Perlman replied.

Cheekily I retorted, “You know we have books in Australia, in fact I work in a bookshop, I could have kept you supplied for your whole visit.”

“Good to know, we will have to investigate that later,” he grinned at his own witty reply.

As we entered the house we were met by an overly excited labrador and two grinning housemates.

Each was introduced and we moved into the living room. Gonzo was very insistent in giving his full attention to Elio’s father who couldn’t have been happier to give him a scratch behind his ears. This soon wasn’t enough for Gonzo and he managed to entwine himself between the older man’s legs and with a loud thud he hit the floor, landing comfortably on his backside, so no harm was done. The thrilled black dog capitalised on the opportunity to give him a thorough tongue bath. If Papa Perlman didn’t like dogs, he was very good at covering it. He sat there taking Gonzo’s exuberant love with infectious giggles.

I overheard heard Mama Perlman introduce herself as ‘Annella’ to Oscar and discreetly ask with a wicked chuckle, “Are you the polyglot or the pornographer?”

“I am the linguist. How did you know I wasn’t the philosopher?” he enquired shyly.

“We have had a full report of ‘la Muvi star’, who resides in the room next to Elio.” she stated.

She then proceeded to ask him something, in what sounded like Italian, he replied with “Si.. si.” And then he continued with what sounded like a list of languages.

She promptly switched to German and after a little more discussion, they settled on Oscar’s preferred language of Portuguese. Their eyes shone as they both gestured wildly, revelling in their conversation which I know they both were enjoying too much to want to be interrupted, so I went into the kitchen and fetched the coffee and cups.

All of us delighted in discovering more about their holiday plans. They stated that they wanted to keep their options fairly open as they were really here to spend time with Elio and us of course. What else they were going to do was not important, but they were open to exploring Canberra and its surrounds. I started to think of things we could take them to see and I would start planning as soon as I had a free moment.

The parents did the usual parental thing of turning the conversation on to the work we were all doing. The essays, reports and projects we were producing. Oliver talked up his progress with this thesis that Papa Perlman said he would be happy to look over.

Then the conversation turned to my work. Each house mate telling parts of the story of how we had taken over a secluded island in the lake and how without them my work would have been non-existent and very pedestrian.

Both parents revelled in the way the tale was told and then enthusiastically asked to see the result. I reluctantly went to fetch the boxes of photographs. I am so proud of these monumental artworks, that I have spent so many hours producing but was a little reticent to whip them out. I know my parents wouldn’t have delighted at seeing their son and his housemates frolicking naked fully, when they had only met not an hour before. I know they are European, but it is a very different thing having all of us in all our glory displayed in large over saturated Kodachrome prints.

Rolling out the first of the two-metre-long prints on the dining table and, I had Oliver and Oscar support the two one-metre-long, accompanying images which completed the triptych. Both parents drew an audible gasp at the sight and stepped forward to inspect the prints more closely. They commented about how they found the images to be quite fantastic, so sharp and colourful.

“If you liked this, then you are going to love this,” I theatrically said as I opened the large box containing the embroidered prints, that the household titled ‘The Crackpot’s cracked pots’. The quilted works were now resplendent with the arduously time consuming but now complete hand stitched Homer quotes emblazoned along the sinuous ribbons.

Their response was even more enthusiastic than the first prints. Delicately running their fingers over the patchwork and embroidery, they inspected the tea towel construction and asked numerous questions about how I had produced them. They were really enjoying the fractured archaeological nature of the pieces.

Papa Perlman began to speak so fast and excitedly that his words were running together, “I have spent my life looking at art from many time periods. So much of it banal and pastiche, but this is truly something else. It is responding to the classical work with such beautiful complex and detailed layers of meaning and ideas. I have no idea how you created these as what you have captured flows well beyond the usual level of pastiche and taps into the true nature of these archaeological pieces and that is so very miraculous to me. You are obviously very clever and an extremely talented artist.”

He continued, “How is your university’s lecturing staff responding to these?”

“Not very well actually,” I said, “they are concerned that I have lost the point or am diluting the meaning of the work. They feel the overly home spun style and the decorative surrounds are detracting from the photographic works and drifting into the realms of ‘craft’.”

His face was turning a shade of red that I couldn’t fathom and when he spoke, it came out with such force that we all were taken aback by the roar. “They are imbeciles and have no place in discouraging work that they don’t understand. You are reflecting ‘craft’! A craft that took a millennium to master. It’s intimate and tactile and highly erotic, of course it’s ‘homespun’! It’s not for a cold gallery wall. Like the originals you are responding to, it’s for the home and to be loved and handled. I have a good mind to have a word with the head of the art school and make it clear that there will be hell to pay if they don’t supply a secondary reviewer from the archaeological or classics departments, with a background in this area, who is capable of understanding this work when they are assessing it.”

I wanted to laugh off his impassioned response to my work, but I knew he could make life for me at the university hell and destroy any relationship I have with my lecturers. I said, “Thank you for your concern, but as long as they like my main pieces, I will graduate with good grades and if they don’t understand these ones, I won’t exhibit them. It’s no big deal. There is always more art coming out of my head or my camera.” I said and slapped him on the back.

“It is a big deal, these are inspired and I would love to show them to my students. Could I get you to photograph them for me?” He asked me.

“I will make slides of them before you go,” I promised and was glad to end the subject but had to make one more dig at my housemates. “See, the learned Professor and his gorgeous wife appreciate my art and can separate it from pornography.”

“Do they have issue with you producing nudes?” Papa Perlman said speaking to my housemates and shot a glare at his son. He obviously hadn’t calmed down fully yet and was overtired from his flight.

I said quickly to protect Elio, “They find it a challenge to separate the subjective nature of the naked human form and an objective view of the human body captured in movement and so think of it as pornography and have sexualized the meaning of my images.”

“Oh… is that so, please bear with me a minute here Professor,” Oliver piped up and turned directly towards me, “Are the images of my cock that you insist on plastering all over the refrigerator subjective or objective?”

“Both” I retort, “The object being your junk, is very aesthetically pleasing and the fact that you as the subject have a hatred of being scrutinized and thus it makes you uncomfortable is a bonus that amuses the hell out of me and so that’s why I continue to do it.”

Both parents erupted into fits of laughter at our usual banter. Oliver shot an angry look at me but laughed along with the rest of us.

We began to notice the parents begin to fade a little as the travel started to catch up with them. Mama Perlman announced that it’d been a long flight and that they needed to freshen up. Elio escorted them towards Oscar and my room and the rest of us began to prepare for dinner.

Oliver mumbled at me, “You’re an arsehole,” as he pushed past in the kitchen.

“I resemble that,” I replied dryly as I handed him a tomato to cut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing became too long and I had to divide it. Sorry, not sorry. Enjoy the story, please comment or ask questions. Tell me I am a total arsehole for taking this long to update this story, I can only blame the 'Island boys'.


	8. Meanwhile on Cordium Street part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's still the first night with the Perlmans in Cordium Street and 'I' is captivated by Mama Perlman's beauty and grace and Papa Perlman holds court at the dinning table as he would. Elio has to share a bed with Oliver. 'I' feels sorry for Elio and then doesn't.
> 
> To get you in the mood and get your 'full swagger on' for this chapter, I would suggest you take a couple of moments to listen to this song first.  
[ 'I feel you' - Depeche Mode (Spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/track/7j7DZatUxIPjCSIMf4sJob?si=uBW1Ci27QJ6ZTE-YQ_csjw)  
['I feel you' - Depeche Mode (YouTube)](https://youtu.be/iTKJ_itifQg)  


Mama Perlman wafted into the living room in a cloud of silk and very ‘expensive looking’ Armani jeans. Elio handed her a glass of Canberra District chardonnay. They fell quickly into a lively conversation and catch up, and since I didn’t understand any of it, I wandered off to check on the progress of dinner.

Oliver was in his favourite location, by the barbeque and cooking the meat. To keep him on task, I took him a fresh beer and was surprised to find Papa Perlman also helping. He had a large glass of wine in hand, with my guess being it had come from the same bottle as Elio was handing out.

They were deep in discussion about something or other, which included: hysterical laughs, explosive outbursts, frantic gesturing and overly expressive facial expressions. This again wasn’t a conversation that I wanted to enter into until I had had more to drink. The steaks were taking second place to their conversation. _One job Oliver, one bloody job._

I turned the steaks over and was glad I did. They were starting to get a little darker than I would have liked them. I gestured at Oliver with the ‘watching’ hand gesture, with my first two fingers pointing at my eyes and then turning them around to the meat on the grill. “You really need to relax a bit more about things, you will do yourself some damage being this wound up all the time!” he replied.

“I am just reminding you that I prefer my meat not to cremated, Ok Chef?” I retorted.

Patronisingly, Oliver saluted me. Papa Perlman promised that he would ensure that Oliver cooked them perfectly. I am not sure who I trusted more, so I thought I’d better leave them to it before I came off as some sort of neurotic control freak.

I found Oscar on the couch and when I sat down, Gonzo joined us. He looked pretty happy with himself, sitting in prime position between us. Cordium Street was contented and calm and I definitely think that the Perlmans were a welcome addition to our household.

***

Dinner. when it finally arrived, was a light and flavoursome affair. The steaks were a little overcooked and I shot Oliver a glare which he rebuffed by him passing me the wine bottle. How could I stay angry at that loveable blockhead, particularly when he was giving me wine?

The conversations were varied and usually ended with some sort of gag or outlandish exaggeration and/or someone mocking being offended. Papa Perlman’s wit was ‘razor sharp’ and his effervescent personality made everyone at the table feel welcome and part of the fun. He masterfully held court over the table, like the god Bacchus in human form.

Mama Perlman had a more subtle grace and an elegant graciousness that I found intoxicating. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her and she smiled at me with a knowing nod every time she caught me staring. She was such a beautiful and clever woman and was obviously used to a lot of attention.

Elio spent most of the night mortified, as his parent’s told charming stories about his youth, which became more embarrassing as they drank. Oliver sat enraptured as they spoke and would ask for more details when they hadn’t expanded on a part of the story to save Elio’s embarrassment. At one point I was sure he was going to get up and leave the table as we laughed at his expense. Instead he came back with port and a collection of our mismatching glasses and then trudged upstairs to his piano in the mezzanine. His shoulders were low and within a few seconds we heard him begin to play. His parents clapped with delighted as they said it’d been ages since they had heard him play.

By the time that Elio had finished playing a long soporific piece, both of his parents had moved to the sofa and were slumbering soundly. Oliver was yawning and stretching and mumbling things about needing to go to sleep. Elio came down and gently woke them and escorted them to our bedroom. Not before Mama Perlman planted sloppy kisses on all of us and then disappeared behind the bedroom door for the night. Gonzo was delighted to have his sofa back the moment it was vacated. It was almost midnight.

***

The tooth brushing routine for four grown men was extensive and I watched Elio in the mirror watching Oliver vigorously cleaning his teeth, his body giggling with the force of each rotation. Oscar stood in the doorway looking impatient as he needed to pee.

I found it very strange laying in a different bed in our own house, and every sound was magnified because of its newness. The room was the same size as ours, but we were facing the opposite direction. The bed was nice and comfortable, if not a little bigger than our old double bed. I wondered to myself how Elio would cope sleeping next to the ‘man mountain’ that he was having to share a bed with. It wouldn’t be easy with his massive limbs and body and enormous head.

The door to the balcony was open, letting in the cooling night air and Oliver’s equivalent room door must have also been the same. I heard Elio comment to Oliver, “I like what you have done with ‘the place’.”

Oliver snorted in reply, then softly said, “I am glad you chose to share my room. This is ok, right?”

“Uh-ha,” Elio slowly replied.

After a long silence, with the only noise being the soft squeak of floorboards. “You Ok?” Oliver asked.

“Me Ok!” Elio squeaked.

Then a few seconds later, an amused Oliver asked, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” the other replied.

I distinctly heard the rustle of hands over clothes and bodies entwining and soft giggles and then the sudden awkward silence as the tension in the room ratcheted up and I couldn’t help but hold my breath vicariously willing something to happen. Oliver almost growled, “Can I kiss you?”

As I sat in silence waiting for Elio’s reply, Oscar opened the bedroom door. _For fuck’s sake Oscar!_

I silently shushed him, pointing at the open balcony door. He stated flatly, “Oh you are such a big old perve.”

The squeak of bedsprings and then “Off and off and off and off,” come like a deep Oliver rumble from the other room. Oscar’s shock reformed into a prefect representation of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’.

Jumping quickly into bed next to me, to listen for more, there was a long series of groans, moans and a what sounded like a belt hitting the floor. The floorboards began to mirror the grinding of two peoples writhing on a bed. Oscar ran his hand down my chest, “If you can’t beat them…”

I realised that Oscar was a little drunker than I had thought as he planted a wet kiss on my lips. He tasted of port and toothpaste and I was more than primed to respond to his enthusiasm. I ran my hands down his exquisitely firm chest, taut from days of jogging with Oliver. I stopping to pinch the points of interest on the way as my hand travelled and his excitement built. His mouth moved from mine to my neck and I continued to follow the course of his chest hair towards his now very hard and heavy fat cock.

With my hand tightly encircling it, I gave him a couple of quick firm tugs, which was followed by his pleased grunts of pleasure. This wouldn’t take long, as both of us were a little sloppy from the night of wine and revelry, so we got to work before we passed out.

Out of the drawer next to the bed, I pulled out some lube and a condom. I let Oscar slide the latex over the veined majesty of his engorged cock. I focused on opening myself as fast as could. I knew I had been too impatient as I tried to slip myself over Oscar’s ample girth. _Fuck that hurt._

Everything stopped until my pain had subsided. I tried again this time breathing out with force and tugged my own cock franticly. I made a few quick ‘in and out’ motions on him, to open myself up further, and after what felt like forever, finally my muscles relaxed, and I was able to take all of him. Oscar gave a satisfied grunt and we entwined in the way that lovers who know each other’s bodies so well can. The shorthand of knowing how to wring the most passion out of the other’s bodies in the shortest amount of time.

All too soon I was awash with sensation and Oscar rolled me over and folding me almost in half, when he began to drive himself into me and thrusted toward orgasm. He used his own weight on my legs to force my arse up higher and in our perfectly counterbalanced positions we settled into the steady pace of Oscar’s thrusting. I took to my rogering with delight and pushed back against his lunges. Our guttural grunting peaked, and I crashed into Oscars arms covered in our splooge.

Pashing deeply as we tried to regain our breathe and in only a few seconds, our excitement crashed, and the cold reality hit home. I realised that our shared exuberance would have been just as audible as the steady grinding pair in the room next door, as they paced their rutting only a few metres away.

I went to get up and closed the door to give them a little privacy and was stopped by Oscar. He was already half-asleep and clung tightly to me, dragging me deeper into his arms. He mumbled into the back of my head as he drifted off again, “Let them be.”

And with that I also drifted off into a deep, dark, drunken slumber.

***

It was still dark when something woke me. I had no idea how long I had been asleep. The house was quiet, other than Oscar’s sawing sound as he snored peacefully beside me and then I heard a voice whispering something. I think I heard Oliver say, “Call me by your name… and I will call you by mine.” _What the hell did that mean?_

Elio then replied with, “Elio… Elio... Elio.”

A single drawn out, “Oliiiiverrrr,” was purred back at him.

I was too tired to care at that point about my housemates’ shenanigans and I quickly drifted off to a long and contented sleep. I would ask Elio in the morning what that was all about.

***

I woke to the sound of food cooking and the heady smell of freshly brewed coffee. Like a cartoon character, I was carried downstairs on its scent. I found the house in full breakfast production. I could see Oscar and Oliver standing outside after just having moved the dining table into our backyard. They were chatting quite animatedly, and Mama Perlman was in the kitchen cooking up a storm in the kitchen. Papa Perlman emerged from the kitchen with a large mug of coffee which he pushed into my hand and after I thanked him, he asked how I had slept. I explained how I was quite surprised at how well I slept, as I usually don’t like new beds. He had agreed and explained how he was a very light sleeper, but the jetlag had worked its magic and from the moment his head hit the pillow he was out cold. I thought back to the night before and was rather pleased that was the case for him as he would have heard much noise from upstairs.

We all grabbed chairs and I asked Oliver why he was wet. “Oh, Elio and I went for a dip this morning while it was still quiet,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“The season is turning, you won’t be able to do that for much longer,” I replied.

Oliver lowered himself gently down as he sat at the table and I saw the shadow of mild pain pass through his crystal blue eyes. _Ok, that was how good his night was last night._

To distract him from his discomfort, I asked him, “Do you have much planned for the day?”

“I didn’t sleep as well as I usually do so I suspect I will be catching a few zees as soon as breakfast is over,” he replied with a manufactured smile.

“Elio’s bed is surprisingly comfortable and we both were out cold within seconds of laying down. Did not hear ‘a thing’, until just now when I woke up,” I lied.

Oscar shot me a look as if to say, ‘stop laying it on so thick’!

Mama and Papa Perlman brought out plate after plate of delicious smelling food: frittata, eggs, little sausages, toast (Nutella of course for Elio, who was a Nutella fiend). Oliver didn’t need to be asked twice, as he began to clear the plates of their contents and then shifted it rapidly from his own plate into thin air. Mama Perlman looked on at this man’s appetite and smiled with pleasure at his delight for her cooking. She commented after he had just inhaled a soft boiled egg, “Oliver, have another egg.”

“Oh no! I know myself. If I have two, then it will be three and then it will take all of you to roll me away from the table,” he replied with a light chuckle.

This broke us all up. Oliver was the most self-aware and yet at the same time the most totally deluded individual in the whole universe.

Suddenly, Elio appeared at the back door in sunglasses. He beelined around the table placing a kiss on his mother’s cheek and then proceeded to do the same to his Papa, who patted his shoulder in an affectionate way. Taking the seat opposite Oliver, he ‘oh so casually’ took to his seat in a manner much more gingerly than usual. I watched his Mother watching him sit and then he adjusted his position several times. The smirk on her face was priceless. _Oh, she knows exactly what happened last night._

I watched as Oliver moved his foot on top of Elio’s in a supportive and protective way. Even without looking at each other they were totally in tune and functioning as one solid unit. This ‘thing’ was so on. Elio caught Oliver’s eye and the sparks flew. They quickly looked away from each other, too self- conscious to retain the look, and came back to the table’s conversation.

We were discussing our plans for the day and I offered to take them for a tourist drive around the main sights of the area. Oscar had an essay to write and needed to go into Uni so we could drop him off on the way. Oliver was already beginning to wane, sated in all senses; he was curled up on the sofa with Gonzo before the table was fully cleared.

***

With so many hands, clearing and reinstating the dining room took no time at all. The energy in the house was warm and domestic as Mama Perlman refilled her coffee cup and turned to me. “It’s very unsettling the way you keep staring at me like that. Would it be easier if you just to take a photograph!?”

I was taken aback but not at all deterred but her directness, “Would you let me photograph you?”

“I have seen your artistry and so it would be a crime to refuse,” she said with a glint in her eye.

Before she had time to change her mind, I took the stairs two at a time to collect my camera and loaded a roll of film.

I explained quickly that I just wanted to try a simple portrait of her out in the zen garden. By now the sun was almost fully overhead, with the trees providing gentle shade and softening the light which made her skin glow.

I got her to stand in a bright spot and let the background burn out to almost black and encased her in the dense foliage. I guess she was a little nervous as she began to speak. “Now, you have to stop calling me Mama Perlman, it’s too formal and I will only do this if you call me Annella from now on. You are not in any position to argue.”

I couldn’t refuse my beguiling model’s request. I nodded in agreement. “And since we are now equals I think it would be a better photograph if I removed my shirt,” she stated.

I stood in stunned awe and delight as she unbuttoned her billowy shirt and folded it neatly over one of the outdoor chairs. Effortlessly slipping out of her bra, she stood boldly and quite proudly in the halo of sunlight. She was majestic. Her high-waisted jeans accentuated her narrow waist and fine figure. “Don’t move,” I commanded as I clicked a couple of shots like that.

My mind drifted to the iconic images of Australian photographer, Carol Jerrems. I began to explain what I was thinking to Annella and how we were almost reprising one of her classic images titled ‘Vale Street 75’. Turning to put my head through the bedroom door I called for Elio and Oscar.

Elio was the first to appear and was a little shocked to find his mother semi-clad but she had already predicted his concern and said, “It was my idea to do it this way.”

“Maman, you shouldn’t encourage him,” Elio pleaded with his mother.

“Shush dear, we have some modelling to do.”

Oscar came through the door, with Papa Perlman loitering in the background, just watching and not commenting. He had a gleam of mischief in his eyes and never took them off his stunning wife.

“Boys, take off your shirts and stand behind Annella. Yes, up in the garden bed. Let the overhanging branches and shade of the trees cover you,” I directed them.

Elio again was the perfect model, taking up a beautiful classical pose. I really needed to photograph him more often. He did most of the work for me. He looked slightly sulky and ashamed from behind his shaggy curls. One hand on his hip as if in defiance. Oscar stood straight on, he folded his arms and gave me that look he does when I am about to get the ‘you are pushing your luck’ talk. I know I will get a firm talking to before this day is out. I could even predict how the conversation would go. ‘You are incorrigible! They haven’t even been in the country for 24-hours and already you have Elio’s mother out in the garden with her tits out.’ I would try to defend myself by saying it was her idea, but he wouldn’t buy it. Oh, how I suffer for my art.

We wrapped the shoot after three rolls of film were spent and I knew these images would be powerful and delightfully breathtaking. A woman in her prime flanked by two younger men who are nowhere near her equals, like Queen Boudicca leading her men into battle.

***

Papa Perlman or Sami (yes, he had insisted that I refer to him that way as well) had cornered me in the Mount Ainslie carpark. The views were fantastic on a clear day like this. The vista took in the whole city and the suburbs south, framed by the ring of hills and the beginning of the Snowy Mountains.

I knew something was up when he retained me as his wife and son wondered forward towards the edge.

“You do seem to have a penchant for photographing my family naked,” Sami began awkwardly.

“If I have offended you, please…” I said, before he cut me off with a wave of his hand.

“It’s not that at all,” he stated directly.

And then it hit me, while he looked down towards his shoes a little embarrassed.

“Ohhhh…” I said with a relieved chuckle as the realisation hit me, “Papa.. err.. I mean Sami. Do you honestly believe that you are going to get out of Cordium Street without me photographing you naked?” and I gently slapped his back.

We beamed at each other so as to seal the agreement and then Elio turned. When he saw the look on our faces he said, “Oh shit, what are you two up to now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. Its been a hell of a couple of months with begining to work from home and my work load continuing to grow. I should be complaining, but I just want you all to understand why. Sorry. At least it has given me more time to make sure this chapter works. This is my third attempt at the midnight scene, so be gentle... say nice things and if you don't like, stop reading and fuck off! by the way, I have a bit of a crush on Annella Perlman, if you didn't guess. 
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/wgy6QTG)  
Carol Jerrems' magnificent photograph 'Vale street 75'. Referred to in this chapter.
> 
> If you get a chance listen to the spotify playlist... 'It's all kill and no filler!' [\- Cordium Street Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1231157715/playlist/4lbJRqCG3XoFu613s3sUBN?si=ubX0VKArRqOz09ZM5yx8Ew)  
Enjoy!  
My thanks goes out to all of my Peachy pals who have heard way too much about this chapter as it has been developing. And there is so much more to come.


	9. A letter to Oliver - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving home from uni, I was deafened by the pumping 80's Italian Pop blasting out of the house and a letter box full of mail.
> 
> ** _Trigger Warning:_** Extremely harsh parental rejection.  
If a chapter containing these sort of topics will cause you mental anguish, please skip it. The next chapter will deal with the fallout.  
Stay safe out there people.

By the time I arrived at our letter box on Cordium Street, I was confronted by the sound of loud 80’s Italian pop blasting from inside. Pulling out the mail; some junk mail and a letter for Oliver and the bloody electricity bill.

Oliver’s letter was addressed in the identical brown ink that he used to use, that was before he lost his Montblanc pen within the first couple of weeks of living with us. My guess would be that it was a similar pen, so this would be one of his infrequent letters from home.

I had been in to uni for a few hours to develop a series of slides that Sami had requested and to print off an edition of the shots I took of Annella. They had turned out so well that I also slipped a special wallet size version in the box of slides for Sami’s own personal viewing.

I was greeted at the door by Gonzo who was hyped with excitement. In the hall was a production line of sorts, which made sense once I arrived at the kitchen doorway. Annella was the ring-mistress to a bottling circus. Excitedly Elio announced, “We went to the markets at closing time and bought 5 boxes of tomatoes for $10!”

Annella continued, “Yes, we couldn’t say no to such good value and so we are making passata!”

They explained the process of passata production; Sami sterilised the beer bottles in the oven, as Annella blanched the tomatoes to remove the skins, before Elio and Oscar chopped them and used a ricer (a sieve with a handle to push the pulp through) to pulp the flesh and then they bottled it. Annella took the filled bottles and placed them on a pot to boil in the bottle. Finally, Oliver capped them off, not before putting a single basil leaf in each bottle.

I put the power bill on the fridge and handed Oliver his letter, which he put aside to read once his hands were clean. I chatted about my day and somehow got roped into cutting up the freshly peeled tomatoes. They were almost too hot to touch. Annella’s fingertips must have been made of asbestos.

As we bottled the last of the of the sauce, we all took a well-earned rest in the living room. Annella was a total slave driver and we had all definitely earned our ragu we were planning for dinner. We were going to end up with a year’s worth of passata, but I wasn’t about to rain on their enthusiasm, and frugalness, just as a I wasn’t going to turn down the delicious meals that this sauce would be the basis of. Since Annella’s arrival we all had eaten so well, she truly was a marvel in the kitchen.

***

Since Elio’s parents had taken up residence in Cordium Street, our days had been filled with new and exotic culinary delights and regular adventurous outings to museums or institutions (somewhere Sami knew someone who worked there of course) or random shops, which we didn’t know existed and most of the time, why they existed.

We had perfected 6 people travelling in the car with Oliver and Elio seeming to like to sit on each other’s lap in the backseat. Oliver’s legs were long but his arse was skinny and so we all managed the squeeze for these short tours.

Oscar sat at the table and divided up the electricity bill into each of our quarters. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected, I would have to find only $37.45 in the next couple of weeks. The bills never stop coming but our winter bill would be so much worse. I shuddered at the thought of it.

I wondered out loud where Oliver and Gonzo had got to. Probably sleeping off the day’s labours. Elio lay with his head on his mother’s lap and Sami was chuckling merrily at the image that I had slipped into the slides box. I gave him a wink and he nodded appreciatively. Then Oscar reminded me of the letter I’d brought in and then gestured to the second story.

Sometime later, Elio went upstairs and then came a worried call from him for his mother.

Annella elegantly flew up the stairs, we heard a quiet discussion in Italian from the mezzanine and Elio return down the stairs in a state of shock.

Both Oscar and I had risen to meet him at the foot of the stairs. “What happened?” I asked with genuine worry at Elio’s reaction.

“The letter he got from home had some sort of bad news in it, but he won’t tell me anything about it,” Elio blurted out crest fallen.

“He is up there rocking and crying and clinging to Gonzo for dear life. Maman will help, I am sure,” he said with very little conviction in his words.

We looked to Sami, who tried his best to smile. “Come on boys, give me a hand to put the kettle on and see if we can rustle up some of those delicious chocolate cookies you all like so much. Shock takes time to adjust to, and he’s in safe hands up there with Annella.”

Sami put his arm around his son in a protective and supportive manner and we set about making a large pot of tea. By the time it had steeped, Annella was escorting Oliver down the stairs. She led him by the hand; he looked so fragile and small. In his other hand he held the crumpled letter.

Sitting timidly on the sofa, Oliver looked at each of through his red swollen eyes and then he croaked out, “Annella thought it best if I tell you what has happened, because it’s going to affect the whole house.”

He drew breath and we all sat in anticipation on the edge of our seats for what he would say next. “You may as well hear it from the source.”

Oliver flattened out the letter and begun to read…

_“_ _Son, I won’t bore you social niceties. If you are reading this, then you must be in relatively good health.”_

Oliver stopped reading and his made a wounded sound like an animal being kicked. He broke down and the large strong man crumpled off his chair to the floor. Elio moved to his side and cradled his head in his arms, protectively. Elio handed the page to Annella, who continued the letter in her beautiful studied English accent.

_“We can only imagine that you are under the erroneous delusion that your self-imposed exile to Australia protects you from our scrutiny, and that to us, you are out of sight and out of mind. This letter is to inform you that that couldn’t be further from the truth. _

_We are extremely disappointed that you willfully and at odds with our counsel, have chosen to squander your exceptional educational opportunities. You are wasting a relatively sound mind to studying subjects which will railroad you away from more desirable and financially rewarding fields of endeavor. You were accepted into one of the most prestigious schools in this country and chose instead to go halfway round the planet and attend a second-rate Australian university, to study of all things, archaic philosophy. _

_Our humble wish for you to study something practical, such as law or business, and justify our investment, went unheeded. We permitted you to explore other fields of study in your undergraduate degree specifically to enrich your experience for your future employability, but this willful departure is beyond the pale._

_You are a grown man and need to begin to mature into the man that this family expects you to be, and to begin to live up to the expectations that we have for you. We have been in contact with Micol’s parents and it is our greatest hope to see the two of you reconciled and have your union solemnized as soon as possible. _

_It would be in everyone’s best interest for you to return to the States post-haste and beg that woman to overlook your obvious character flaws and to fulfil your obligations to the mutually beneficial desire that we hold for your pairing. We cannot see any impediment or reason for you to circumvent us in this way. It’s time you lived up to the responsibilities and to uphold your position in this family._

_In our last call, we were shocked to hear of the unholy squalor that you have chosen to reside in, with deviants, malcontents and wasters. We have no idea how you managed to collect such a distasteful assortment nor why you would want to associate with them._

_Your mother and I have been in discussion about your choices and have come to the conclusion that we do not wish to be party to or fund your downfall. We sincerely hope that this deprivation will force your hand and to encourage your return to the righteous path that we have set out for you. We only want the best for you and to see you live up to your full potential. _

_You will thank us one day for having the courage to intervene and challenge you and this divergent lifestyle that you have decided to inhabit. _

_We felt that writing to you would be the most expedient method to express our displeasure without your insolence, juvenile bawling or your usual impudent tone. We cannot fully express our complete and absolute disappointment in you. _

_When you see the error of your ways and return to the States, we can work together to reconcile your relationship with Micol and make amends for your past misdemeanors. On that happy day we will call you our son again, but until that time we wish no further correspondence with you until you write to tell us of your imminent return._

_Your father.”_

When she finished reading, she placed the letter in her lap and folded her hand over the top of it. In a gesture was one of closure and marking the completion of the vitriolic rant.

“Wow, that was pretty cunty!” I said in exasperation.

“Not how I would have phrased it, but I couldn’t agree more,” Sami replied with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I am sorry to put you through this. We needed an explanation for Oliver's behaviour and this is the purpose of this half of the chapter.  
I had dozens of friends who when they didn't turn out the way that their parents felt they should, they were rejected. This chapter is for all of you, especially the ones who came out or got dragged out of the closet and faced total rejection by their family. With no where to go their decisions felt limited and the consequences were often very dramatic. I did my best to stand with them for as long as they needed me.
> 
> The most important thing for you out there to remember is it may feel bad right now, but their are people who love you and will love you no matter who or what you are. You are not alone. If you need someone to chat, don't hesitate to drop me a line. I am sorry if I caused anyone anguish or post Traumatic distress in anyway. 
> 
> Usually I recommend you listen to a track to get the feel for the chapter. I went looking for songs from around 1993 to link to this chapter but nothing felt right and so I gave up after spending an afternoon cry over heart breaking songs. Fill ya boots, if you want to listen to these tracks  
Top three tracks where:  
Madonna - 'Oh Father'  
Genesis - 'Father to son'  
& Ugly Kid Joe - 'Cat's in the cradle'
> 
> Most of all thank you for reading.


	10. A letter to Oliver - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I' is in total disbelief at what we had just heard. Whose ‘fucked up’ parents would write such an offensive letter?
> 
> Thank you for your understanding a patience with these two chapters. As a balm for your soul, before you start this chapter, I recommend that you listen to this fabulous song from a very underrated Australian band 'the Go Betweens' [\- 'Right here.'](https://open.spotify.com/track/2xfwNKL4BRfDxGWqXJuFvv?si=KJcRshB0QBO1fvgl0jff7Q)  
Or the dodgy but sweet video here on you tube.  
[\- 'Right here.'](https://youtu.be/Q97CRX_vjcg)  
If you are enjoying this story, how about letting me know in the comments down below.

“I do hope he was referring to me when he mentioned ‘deviants’ and I guess that Oscar you must be the ‘waster’. So, I am sorry Elio, you must be the malcontent!” I said trying make light of the letter and to lighten the mood, but I think it had the reverse effect.

I was still in disbelief at what we had just heard. Whose ‘fucked up’ parents would write such an offensive letter? My own parents didn’t take my coming out very well, but they didn’t blame me for willfully choosing to do it to spite them.

At this point, the long running battles Oliver and I had had during our cohabitation were brought into sharp focus. He was battling himself and his desires as if his father was present and he had to justify everything to them. I kept rubbing my freedoms in his face and I am amazed that he didn’t smack me down harder for it.

“Oliver, I am sorry for being such a dick to you over the last few months. I promise I will make it up you somehow and I now understand some of your reservations. That is if you are not going to go home and play happy families as you father demanded,” I said.

Oliver shot me a hard glare, which melted into tears again. He croaked out, “I just don’t know what I am going to do.”

“Tesoro, you do not have to make any decisions right away. Take a breath and some time to decide what is best for YOU. You always have choices and you need to live the life that is meaningful to you and not your parents,” Annella replied, running her hand through his golden locks.

“Annella is right, you have shown me what a magnificent and astute mind you have, and your thesis is a really exciting point that I personally would be disappointed to see you throw away. Putting on my professor hat for a moment, you are too far into this semester to justify your immediate departure. I would recommend you complete your present studies and then decide your next step,” Sami said, reinforcing Annella’s comment.

Oliver nodded and replied, “Well, without my parents support, I will still have my doctorate scholarship money coming in, so I won’t be broke, but I will have to get a job to pay for my other expenses.”

“We would hate to see you leave Cordium Street. You are important to me and this household, not to mention the only one capable of keep this guy in check!” Oscar added and gestured towards me. Oliver began to smile a little, or at least stop looks so downtrodden.

I held my hands up at him in mock horror and he laughed. “And if I may speak for Gonzo. Who would sleep on the sofa all day with him? Would you want to throw out his routines like that? That’s dog abuse!” I said in all earnestness, knowing it would rile him up as I reminded him of his lax timetable.

“So, it’s decided then, that you will stay at least until the end of semester?” Elio enquired with a squeak of hope in his voice.

“Well Gonzo is my best buddy and I wouldn’t want him to pine for me if I left him,” Oliver said looking up into Elio’s face.

And the true meaning of his statement was all too clear to everyone in the room, and who he wouldn’t want to be pining for if he left our happy home.

“I think that’s wonderful news that needs to be celebrated with a pint or two at ‘The Pot Belly!’” I declared.

“Tell me about this ‘Pot Belly’?” Sami asked chuckling, patting his own belly.

It is the darkest, ugliest and most decrepit bar in the suburb,” Oscar declared.

I continued, “…As well as the only bar in the suburb. It hasn’t changed its gloomy dark wooden interior since the 1970’s and it has cheap beer and the worst music. It’s loud and smoky and full of Uni students and goes off ‘like a frog in a sock’ on a Thursday night. But even more importantly it is only a short walk from Cordium Street or rather only a short walk home afterwards!”

Elio’s parents’ faces were unreadable.

“Like a frog in a sock?!?” Sami burst out laughing.

“Don’t get him started. He will come back with some rhyming slang, about a kangaroo crossing the road for a sauce bottle!” Oliver said with bad Australian twang and an evil smirk on his face, which was made more vicious with his red rimmed eyes.

“Not even close, you drongo, and there I was thinking you were finally ‘down with our lingo’!” I shot back at him.

Annella stood and took her husband’s hand, leading him from the room and our banter. He left wiping tears from his eyes, and we all went to get ready to hit the pub.

***

It was relatively early when we walked through the door of the little bar that was tucked away on a quiet retail strip next to a pile of car yards. We were able to secure a large table near the front window, but far enough away from the pool table and still be able to see everything that was happening.

The long thin room stretched out towards the kitchen, toilets, and a tiny beer garden at the back. On the left was the bar clad with heavy dark wooded arches partially cover the bar and dozens of suspended glasses and steins.

On the walls were hundreds of gig posters for every band that had ever played in this tiny space. Above the bar on the wall that was closest to the door hung a large wheel which was used on Fridays to draw the weekly beer raffle; we were a day early to see that thing spin.

There was a lot to take in in this interior, some good some bad, including the wrought iron window grates for fake windows along the right-hand wall. Someone at some point must have had the ingenious idea to attempt to make the place look bigger by simulating there was more out that side. Sadly, it did the reverse and emphasised the skinniness of the bar.

We introduced Annella and Sami to Ned the barman and he asked us what we would want. “I suggest we start with a bottle of Clare Valley sparkling shiraz. It’s a celebration after all and it’s an Australian speciality and it’s cheaper than champagne. It’s made in the ‘méthode champenoi’ and until this year it used call it ‘sparkling burgundy’. The EU’s regional products laws outlawed the name and now we can’t call it the name I loved and as my father always did, ‘Sparkling Buggery’.”

“How do you know so much about this wine?” Annella asked.

“Well, this wine was made just north of where Oscar and I come from, a little city called Adelaide,” I said with pride.

“These two are the worst wine snobs that you will ever meet,” Oliver chimed in.

“It’s the way we are raised in South Australia, wine is like mother’s milk,” I tried to justify.

“He is worse than me,” Oscar conceded and gestured towards me.

“Oh, shut up! And drink your Sparkling Buggery!” I yelled at them as I walked away towards our table.

I sat and watched Annella and Sami who appeared delighted by the bar. “This place is the sort of bar that we used to drink in when we were at university. The atmosphere and mystery is so moody it can’t help but make me nostalgic,” Annella gushed.

“Remember that little place in Paris?” Sami said clasping his wife’s hand and looking in her face as she was awash with the happy memories.

“How could I ever forget it, but we shouldn’t bore the boys,’ leaning in to give him a small chaste peck on the lips.

By the time that the sparkling wine was finished, the bar had become very busy and Ned looked run off his feet. Oliver went to buy a round; a jug of beer and glass of wine for Annella. When he didn’t come back, I asked Oscar what had happened to him and gestured behind the bar. I turned to see him there frantically pulling pints and looking delighted at each beer crazed patron. We played some games of pool and I lost as usual. Fortunately, I didn’t have to dance around the table with my pants around my knees, as is the usual punishment for not sinking any balls in a game. You would never call me a pool shark!

After a time, Oliver came past doing a ‘glasses sweep’ of the room and collected our empties. “Ned had two people call in sick and so I offered to give him a hand. It’s crazy up there, I’ll bring a jug in a second,” Oliver hurriedly explained.

His darkened mood had evaporated by making himself busy behind the bar, and the atmosphere at our table lightened with the knowledge that Oliver would going to be ok.

By midnight, Oscar was drunkenly resting his head on my shoulder, Elio’s English had drifting into Ital-glish and his parents had become so adorably smoochy with all of us. This sort of behaviour would usually annoy me, but I admired them and their open hearts so much, that I didn’t mind a little cheek pinching every now and again.

By closing time, Oliver came over and slumped into his seat. He looked exhausted but was beaming, “Ned just offered me three nights a week. Apparently, I am better than his other two staff put together, and he can thank my undergrad lessons from ‘Beer-ology 101’ for that.”

He produced a crisp hundred-dollar bill and waved it at us.

“At least we know you are good for the electricity bill,” I said sarcastically.

He elbowed me hard in the ribs and with that balance had been restored to Cordium Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To give you an idea of the Oliver's new work place. Here is photos!  
The Pot belly is truly an experience to encounter. One of the last original condition bars in Belconnen and Canberra. Its like a time machine of dark wood. 
> 
> If you ever get the opportunity, I recommend having a look at it. I went there in 1991, when I was visiting Canberra and it looks almost exactly the same as it did then, today. At that time, it was the only place to get booze in Belco, other than the bowling alley. Yes.. that was on the way home from The Pot Belly and so we stopped off there too!
> 
> The view from the front door.  
[](https://ibb.co/0yNMVTT)
> 
> The dingy bar in all its glory. please note the Raffle wheel on the wall.  
[](https://ibb.co/wCKGxjy)
> 
> How the bar looked in 90's.  
[](https://ibb.co/zf02T48)
> 
> **Aussie Lexicon: **Drongo (Australian slang) - a mild form of insult for a stupid, inept, dimwit or slow-witted person. The word drongo is most frequently used towards mates and can be used in a casual or serious tone. It is said to have derived from a racehorse, who was named after a type of bird, in the 1920's. The 'Drongo' horse was said to have that never run a full race out of 37 starts. Who knows if it is true.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a different style for me and a little more personal, so thank you to all that help devise it. 
> 
> I needed something light and open and fresh and with no real drama other than the usual 'smoldering lusty' kind that is so enjoyable to read. Please subscribe to it and if you like it let me know. If you don't, than read something else.
> 
> As I write I like to make a Spotify playlist to get myself into the mindset. Here is a Spotify playlist featuring 1990-1993 tracks that would have been played in the house on Cordium Street. [-Cordium Street](https://open.spotify.com/user/1231157715/playlist/4lbJRqCG3XoFu613s3sUBN?si=ubX0VKArRqOz09ZM5yx8Ew)  
Thank you to John for his pointers and corrections. You rock!


End file.
